When I Met You

“It does. Yours is confused.”

I laughed. She was quick, direct, and impossible to ignore.

When we reached my room, she noticed the camera equipment beside the desk.

“You’re a photographer.”

“Trying to be.”

“What do you photograph?”

“Whatever refuses to stay still.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“I’m new to New York. I’m allowed one dramatic sentence.”

She smiled, then asked about the cello case in the neighboring room. I learned that she was a music student, that she practiced late, and that she was trying to earn a scholarship.

“You should play something,” I said.

“You should unpack.”

“I’m better at listening.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You can test me.”

She pointed down the hall. “Seven o’clock. If you hear a mistake, don’t mention it.”

At seven, I sat outside my door and listened to her play. The music began uncertainly, then gathered strength. I did not understand the technical details, but I understood the feeling: she was fighting to remain herself.

When she finished, I knocked.

“Was it terrible?” she asked.

“It was loud enough to make me forget unpacking.”

She opened the door. “That is not an answer.”

“It was beautiful.”

The compliment made her look away. I noticed that she did that whenever something reached her.

The next morning, she knocked on my door and invited me to lunch.

“It’s free,” she said.

“Free usually means suspicious.”

“They pay you to donate blood.”

“That is definitely suspicious.”

She laughed and waited while I found a shirt. I could not find a belt, so she removed the shoelace from one of my boots and tied it around my waist.

“There.”

“You’ve improved my style.”

“Your style was an emergency.”

We walked through the city, and Elise showed me the shortest route to the blood center. I was lost in New York, but beside her the streets seemed less hostile.

At the center, we filled out forms and lay in separate chairs. I tried to act brave. Then the room tilted, and I woke to Elise standing above me with crackers.

“You fainted.”

“I rested dramatically.”

“Eat.”

She was pale herself, so I asked a nurse for a blanket. We remained side by side until we felt steady enough to leave.

Outside, we bought coffee and went to Washington Square Park. Elise spread a blanket beneath a tree. I took photographs while she pretended not to notice.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I’m working.”

“That is what photographers call staring?”

“Only the professional ones.”

She rested her head against the tree. “I don’t date.”

“You’re telling me before I ask?”

“I’m telling you because you’re going to ask.”

“Why don’t you date?”

“Music. School. Survival.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s my life.”

I understood that she was not rejecting me. She was protecting the structure she had built.

“I can be your friend,” I said.

“You’re already acting like one.”

“Good.”

“You’re also staring at my legs.”

“I’m a photographer.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

A professor passed us and spoke with Elise. His attention lingered, and when he left, I made a joke about his mustache. She laughed so hard she had to cover her face.

Later, she rested her head in my lap. I played with her hair while the city moved around us.

“Fast friends,” she murmured.

“I like you.”

“You hardly know me.”

“That’s why I want to know more.”

She studied me. “You’re going to be trouble.”

“Only if you let me.”

She took my camera and pointed it at us. “Then take a picture.”

I turned the lens toward our faces. In the first photograph, she was laughing. In the second, I was looking at her. In the third, neither of us was pretending anymore.

At dusk, we walked back to Senior House. She stopped outside my room.

“You’ll be quiet tonight,” she said.

“I’ll listen.”

“Good.”

She went into her room. I opened my door and began unpacking the desk.

The photograph of Elise remained in my camera. I had met her only once, but the day already felt like the beginning of something I would spend years trying to understand.

That night, I developed the three photographs in the darkroom. The first showed Elise laughing at my bad jokes. The second caught the sunlight in her hair. In the third, she was looking directly at me.

I printed the last one twice. One copy went into my portfolio. The other stayed beside my bed.

The next morning, my mother called from California. She wanted to know whether I had unpacked, whether I was eating, and whether I had met anyone interesting.

“I met my neighbor,” I said.

“Is she interesting?”

I looked at the photograph. “Very.”

Mom laughed. “Then don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“You shipped your good shoes to New York and kept the broken lamp.”

“That was a design choice.”

“Call me when you have another adventure.”

After we hung up, I heard Elise begin to practice. The melody came through the wall in hesitant fragments. I sat on the floor and listened until the piece ended.

She knocked a few minutes later.

“Were you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear the mistake?”

“I heard you start again.”

She considered that, then smiled. “You can come in.”

I followed her into the room. The cello stood in the center, and the morning light made her hair look almost white.

“What are you doing today?” she asked.

“Unpacking.”

“You hate unpacking.”

“Then I’ll need help.”

She sat on the floor beside the open boxes. We sorted photographs, books, and clothes while talking about music, California, and the people we had left behind.

By lunchtime, my room looked less like a storage space. Elise held up a framed photograph of the ocean.

“You miss home.”

“Sometimes.”

“You’ll make a new home here.”

“Is that an offer?”

“It’s a prediction.”

She put the photograph on my shelf. The frame leaned slightly to one side.

I left it there.

Before she went back to her room, Elise pointed at the crooked frame.

“You should straighten that.”

“It’s a design choice.”

“You stole my line.”

“I’m learning from the best.”

She laughed and closed the door. I straightened the frame, then tilted it again. Somehow, the imperfect angle looked more like the beginning of a home.

I hoped she would keep coming back.

I had no idea how much that small hope would change my life.

Finally.