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I throw in a teasing laugh for good measure, though I really am increasingly concerned about our differing expectations.

“Aren’t we?” he says, confirming my fears.

I take a long sip of wine. “Elijah, I’m not exactly looking for a relationship.”

“And yet you came up here to see me.”

“Well, you are very good looking.”

“And ‘nice,’ right?” he says, air quoting the nice .

“Right.”

He takes his own long sip of wine. “Can I ask why you’re not looking for a relationship?”

“Because relationships are terrible.”

His eyes go wide. “I think you must be more damaged than I thought.”

I laugh. “Aren’t we all more damaged than we thought?”

“Touché.”

He sits across from me, sets his glass on the table, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Seriously,” he says, “what’s up with you and relationships?”

“I’m a very complicated person, Elijah.”

“I like complicated people. I am one myself.”

“I beg to differ. You seem to be a very simple person, and I mean that in the best way possible.”

“You don’t know me well yet,” he says, grinning.

“And you don’t know me well yet either.”

“I think we can agree there is something good between us, yes?”

I roll my eyes. “I believe the amount of sex we’ve had in a short amount of time can attest to that.”

“And I know I’ve told you this already, but I haven’t really felt this kind of connection before.”

You’re only thirty, I want to say. Really, though, I haven’t felt this kind of connection either, but I can’t disclose that.

If I do, that means we are admitting that we have something special, something unique, something promising.

I am in no position to have something special, unique, or promising.

“It could all be chemical, you know,” I say.

He doesn’t seem deterred. “So you don’t believe in soulmates?”

Now my eyes go wide. Soulmates?

“No,” I say, “I do not believe in soulmates.”

I do not need this poor man to believe I am his soulmate. I most certainly am not.

He nods. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“I guess I’m the romantic of the two of us,” he says.

“I guess you are.”

His phone, on the table next to him, lights up with a text. He glances at it.

“Food’s ready,” he says.

He stands, goes to the kitchen counter to retrieve a set of keys from an empty fruit bowl.

“You cool staying here? It’s right down the street, so I won’t be long.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” I say.

He gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves.

I am alone in his apartment. He trusts me to be alone in his apartment.

It’s baffling. I look around for a camera.

Everyone has cameras now, don’t they? I don’t see anything, so I take it upon myself to snoop.

He doesn’t have much—as I said, he seems to be a rather simple person.

His bookshelves are full, mostly with nonfiction books about various topics—global warming, racism, feminism (yes, feminism).

There is a framed photo of him with an older woman who must be his mother.

They have the same nose, the same smile.

She is white. He mentioned that in one of his texts, said he often dates strong white women and maybe that’s because he was raised by a strong white woman.

I’d teased him about having an Oedipus complex.

There’s nothing of interest in his medicine cabinet, no antidepressants or herpes antivirals or whatever else. He has dental floss and toothpaste and mouthwash. That’s it. He doesn’t even have face wash, which is shocking considering how beautiful his skin is.

In the bedroom, there’s only space for his bed, a small dresser, and his nightstand. I open the drawer, find the roll of condoms we are depleting. There are two left. There’s a phone charger, earplugs, a book on meditation.

I wonder if Elijah has ever committed a sin before I came along—a real sin, I mean.

Then again, if a man sleeps with a married woman, is he saddled with a derogatory term?

Women sleeping with married men are called mistresses.

Is there a male equivalent? I don’t think so.

Patriarchal society may look at men sleeping with married women as smart —enjoying the milk without buying the cow, so to speak.

Elijah seems to want the cow, though. I am, rightfully, the cow.

I hear the door open and rush back to the kitchen. He can tell I’ve just come from his bedroom, though. I’m sure I look caught.

“Snooping?” he says.

“Guilty.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“No. You’re incredibly boring.”

“Guilty,” he says.

He sets the plastic bags of food on the counter, begins unpacking the Styrofoam containers.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask.

“You can finish your glass of wine so I can pour you another.”

I comply, taking my seat at the table.

“I don’t understand why you’re single,” I say. I’ve been thinking it and figure I may as well just come out with my thoughts. I have nothing to lose. This can be an experiment in radical authenticity.

“You sound like my mother,” he says.

“It really doesn’t make sense. There must be something drastically wrong with you that I haven’t discovered yet.”

“I’m sure there are lots of things wrong with me.”

He takes scoops from each container and puts them on a plate, then brings it to me. Then he makes his own plate and sits at the table.

“Your last relationship—with the pediatrician—ended last year?”

“Good memory. And yes. About a year ago.”

“And you were together a long time?”

“Couple years.”

I’m not sure why I’m asking all this, why I’m getting to know him better. Maybe I’m hoping I’ll lose interest if I learn more about him. A crush is just a lack of information —I saw that meme making the rounds on Instagram recently. But there is also the risk I’ll fall for him more.

“And nobody since?”

“Just you,” he says.

“Hmm.”

“That bothers you?”

“Just hard to believe. No sex for a year?”

“Until you,” he says. Then: “What about you?”

I take a bite. “This is really good,” I say.

“I know. And I’m glad you agree. But don’t change the subject.”

“I don’t want to talk about me,” I say.

“You are a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”

“Did you just call me a nut?”

We laugh, and he doesn’t press further, and we enjoy the food, and it feels strangely normal , like we do this all the time.

It’s how I felt at the breakfast place last weekend.

If I was someone who believed in past lives, I would wonder if we’d been lovers in another era.

But I am not someone who believes in much of anything.

“The woman in the photo with you,” I say. “Is that your mother?”

“So you were snooping?” he says. “Yes, that’s her.”

“You’re close?”

He nods. “We are.”

“And your father?”

Just as I’m formulating an assumption that his father abandoned the family, as fathers are permitted to do in a way mothers never are, he says, “He died,” and I feel like a horrible (or more horrible) person.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t seem particularly emotional about it.

“He died before I turned one,” he says. “He was a firefighter.”

“So you never knew him,” I say, thinking of my mother.

He shrugs. “No. Which I know is terrible, but it’s hard to miss what I didn’t know.”

“True,” I say, tempted to share my own story. I decide against it, still unsure how much of a bond I want to develop.

“Any siblings?”

He shakes his head. “Just me.”

Same as me, I think. We have a surprising amount in common.

“An only child, that’s why you’re so mature,” I say.

“Am I mature?”

“For a thirty-year-old man? Yes.”

“My mom would be happy to hear you say that.”

I finally take a bite of my egg roll.

“I told my mom about you,” he says.

“Oh god.”

“I talk to her every day, so it came up,” he says. “Naturally.”

“You really are a mama’s boy.”

“Guilty.”

“I guess if it was just the two of you, it makes sense.”

“We are talking an awful lot about me,” he says.

“I know. It’s great.”

“Katrina, Katrina, you are an enigma,” he says with an amused shake of the head.

“That sounds like a song lyric.”

He attempts to sing it, and his voice cracks. I have found his first flaw: he cannot carry a tune.

“I told my mom you were funny,” he says.

I put my hands over my ears.

“La la la, I don’t want to know what you told your mom about me.”

“Okay, fine. We can talk about something lame instead. What are your favorite movies?”

When we are done with dinner, we have sex again—Katrina is a freaking animal—and then we sleep.

Or he does. I am wide awake again, staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell I’m doing.

I’ll leave in the morning, go visit with Merry and Dad again, then head back home to reality.

This time—this time!—will be my final goodbye with Elijah.

It has to be. I can’t keep this going. Or can I?

No. I can’t. I will tell him I’m serious this time.

I will tell him not to text me. I will delete him from my phone.

I will return to my regular life and sustain myself with the memories.

Maybe I’ll buy a vibrator and pair that with those memories.

Yes, that will be enough. It will have to be.

He’ll be disappointed. And he’s such a sweet guy.

And so handsome. And funny. And kind. But no. This is it. The last time.