around. Much later she’d realize how wrong that first impression was. But on that bright Saturday afternoon, Hen was just happy that Lloyd was back by her side, conversing, and she wouldn’t have to fend for herself.
Mira, about half the size of her tall husband, moved in closer to Hen. “You don’t have children, either,” she said, more a statement than a question, and Hen realized that their new neighbors had undoubtedly spied on them as they moved in back in July. It was strange that they hadn’t come over and introduced themselves.
“No, no children.”
“I think we’re the only couples on this street who don’t.” She laughed nervously. Hen decided that Mira was the physical opposite of her husband, that her features—a slightly too large nose, a low hairline, wide hips—added up to someone far more attractive than her husband.
“What do you do?” Hen asked, immediately annoyed at herself for instantly relying on that particular question.
The four talked for another twenty minutes or so. Matthew was a history teacher at a private high school three towns over, and Mira was a sales rep for an educational software company, which meant, she said several times, that she spent more time traveling than she did at home. “You’ll have to keep an eye on Matthew,” she said. “Tell me what he gets up to when I’m away.” The nervous laugh again. Hen should have hated her, but somehow she didn’t. Maybe the move really had mellowed her, but it was more likely the effect of her current meds. Another burst of wind, colder now, came down the street, rustling the still-green trees, and Hen pulled her cardigan around her body and shivered.
“Cold?” Matthew asked.
“Always,” Hen said, then added, “I think I might head on back . . .”
Lloyd smiled at her. “I’ll come with you,” he said, then turned to Matthew and Mira. “Believe it or not, we’re still unpacking. Nice meeting you both.”
“Nice meeting you, Lloyd,” Matthew said. “And you, too, Hen. Is it short—”
“Henrietta, yes, but no one, except for my birth certificate, has ever called me that. It’s always been Hen.”
“Let’s get together sometime. Maybe cook out, if it’s not too late.” This was from Mira, and they all agreed, in vague responses that made Hen decide that it was never going to happen.
So Hen was surprised when, a week later, Mira ran out from her front door as Hen was walking home from her studio.
“Hen, hi,” Mira said.
As usual, after spending an afternoon working, Hen felt spacey, in a good way. “Hi, Miri,” she responded, realizing right away that she’d gotten the name wrong. Her neighbor didn’t correct her.
“I was going to drop by this evening but I saw you coming down the street. Can you come over for dinner this weekend?”
“Um,” Hen said, delaying.
“Friday or Saturday, it doesn’t matter,” Mira said. “Sunday even works for us.”
Hen knew she wasn’t going to get out of this, especially now that three possible nights had been offered up. She and Lloyd had no specific plans that weekend, so she picked Saturday night and asked what they could bring.
“Just yourselves. Yay. Is there anything you can’t eat?”
“No, we eat everything,” Hen said, neglecting to tell her about Lloyd’s phobia of any meat that came attached to a bone.
They settled on seven o’clock on Saturday, and Hen informed Lloyd when he came home that night.
“Okay,” he said. “New friends. You up for it?”
Hen laughed. “Not really, but it will be nice to have a meal cooked for us. We’ll be dull and they’ll never invite us back.”
She and Lloyd arrived exactly at seven, armed with a bottle of red and a bottle of white. Hen wore her green-checked dress with tights on underneath. Lloyd, who’d showered at least, was wearing jeans and a Bon Iver T-shirt that he sometimes wore when he went running. They were taken to the living room—the layout was identical to theirs—where they all sat around a low coffee table, arrayed with enough appetizers to feed a small party. Hen and Lloyd sat on a beige leather couch, while Matthew and Mira sat in matching chairs. The room was very white and sterile, incredibly clean. There were interesting prints hanging on the walls, but Hen thought she recognized them from Crate and Barrel.
They made small talk for about fifteen minutes. Hen was aware that they hadn’t been offered a drink—was this a nondrinking house?—but didn’t particularly mind, except she was thinking of Lloyd. But just as Mira was