You don’t have to wait for a storm. I stood by my scooter for a minute, debating if I was crossing some unspoken boundary, but ultimately I found myself walking up her stone path again, helmet under my arm, the porch light already casting a glow as if it had been expecting me. I knocked gently. A few seconds passed. Then the door swung open and there she was.
Clara barefoot as usual, her hair pulled back, wearing a long cardigan and holding a coffee mug with both hands. Her eyes instantly softened. Hey, she said as if it hadn’t been a week, as if I had just stepped out. I was just thinking about you. I smiled suddenly unsure of where to put my hands. Really? Mhm. She hummed, stepping back. Come on in.
I baked cookies. They’re not my best work, but they’re warm. I laughed, the tension in my shoulders easing. That’s a potent combination. Her house smelled of cinnamon and something buttery. The jazz was absent this time, replaced by the quiet hum of an evening, a silence that felt deliberate. Luna was curled up on the rug again, his ears twitching as I entered.
Clara handed me a cookie before I even had a chance to sit. Oatmeal chocolate chip. Don’t judge. I didn’t have enough sugar for the traditional kind. I took a bite. It was perfectly soft in the center, just the way I liked it. Do you always welcome people with tea and cookies? I teased. Only the ones who know to knock at just the right moment, she replied.
I sat on the edge of the couch and she settled into the opposite corner. So she began looking at me with that curious open expression of hers. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before. I blinked. That’s a big ask. She grinned. It doesn’t have to be profound, just true.
I considered it for a moment, then said, “When I was 13, I used to record songs from the radio onto a cassette tape and pretend to be a DJ. I’d do fake weather reports and give shoutouts to madeup callers.” She laughed, not with mockery, but with pure delight. Please tell me you still have those tapes. I shook my head. Lost them in a move, but I remember some of the fake names I used. One was DJ Zuul.
She laughed even harder. Zuul. Oh, we are definitely calling you that from now on. I groaned. Instant regret. Then it was her turn. She told me about signing up for a ceramics class once solely to flirt with the instructor only to end up falling in love with pottery instead. He was dull, she said, but the clay wasn’t.
Her stories weren’t grand, but they painted a portrait of someone who had lived with an open heart, someone who knew herself, and that quality made her more captivating than anyone I had ever met. After some time, our conversation dwindled into a comfortable stillness, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.
She reached for her blanket, unfolded it, and laid it across both of us without a word. “Is this all right?” she asked. “Yeah,” I replied softly. “It is.” I became aware then of how close we were. Our knees were touching beneath the blanket, her arm mere inches from mine. I could feel the steady, calm rhythm of her breathing.
The air had a different quality, charged, but not uncomfortably so. She leaned back slightly, resting her head against the couch cushions. I like that you come here, she said. Even when you don’t have a reason to. I like coming here, I responded. It feels like the world slows down inside your living room. She smiled at that.
