1. Brooklyn.
The textile factory on Flushing Avenue smelled of oil and cotton dust. Eleanor had worked there for two years, since she was twenty-one. She stood at her station, feeding fabric through a sewing machine, her foot pressing the pedal in a rhythm she didn't have to think about anymore.
The woman next to her, Rose, leaned over. "You're quiet today."
"I'm always quiet."
"You're quieter than usual."
Eleanor didn't answer. She kept her eyes on the needle. The machine hummed. The fabric moved.
Rose was thirty-five, divorced, loud. She wore too much lipstick and laughed too hard at things that weren't funny. Eleanor liked her anyway.
"It's because you're lonely," Rose said.
"I'm not lonely."
"You're twenty-three years old. You live alone. You never go out. You never talk to men."
"I talk to you."
"I'm not a man."
Eleanor stopped the machine. She looked at Rose. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say yes."
"To what?"
Rose pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket. A name and a phone number. "My cousin's husband's brother. His name is Henry. He's a mailman. He's shy. He's not ugly."
"You want me to go on a blind date."
"I want you to stop wasting your youth."
Eleanor looked at the paper. The handwriting was messy. The name was simple. Henry.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"That's what you always say."
"That's what I always do."
---
The factory whistle blew at five o'clock.
Eleanor walked home. The streets were crowded with workers leaving their shifts. The air smelled of exhaust and hot dogs from a cart on the corner. She lived in a small room on the third floor of a walk-up on Bergen Street. The building had no elevator. The stairs were narrow. The lock on her door was loose.
She opened the door. The room was twelve feet by ten. A bed, a dresser, a small table, a hot plate. The window faced a brick wall.
She sat on the bed. The springs creaked.
She looked at the piece of paper in her hand. Henry.
She had never been in love. She had never been courted. She had held hands with a boy in high school once, but he had moved away. That was seven years ago.
Her mother called her every Sunday. "Are you seeing anyone?" "No." "You're not getting any younger." "I know."
She set the paper on the table. She took off her work shoes. Her feet ached.
She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in the plaster. It looked like a river.
---
The next day, she told Rose yes.
Rose clapped her hands. "Finally!"
"I'm not promising anything. One date."
"One date is all it takes."
The date was set for Saturday. A diner on Flatbush Avenue. Seven o'clock.
Eleanor spent the week worrying. She tried on three different dresses. She washed her hair twice. She bought a new lipstick – a shade called "Rosebud" that was too pink.
On Saturday, she stood in front of the diner. The neon sign flickered. The windows were steamy.
She saw him through the glass. Sitting in a booth. He was tall. Thin. Dark hair. He was looking at his hands.
She walked inside. The bell on the door jingled.
He looked up. His eyes were brown. The kind of brown that caught light.
"Eleanor?" he said.
"Henry."
He stood up. He was taller than she expected. He held out his hand. She shook it. His palm was warm.
"Sit down," he said. "Please."
She sat across from him. The booth was vinyl. The menu was sticky.
They ordered coffee. The waitress wrote nothing down. She just nodded.
The silence was thick.
Henry cleared his throat. "Rose says you work at a factory."
"I sew fabric."
"That's hard work."
"It's work."
He nodded. He looked at his coffee. He looked at the window. He looked at his hands.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"No."
He almost smiled. "Then why do you do it?"
"Because I need money."
He nodded again. "I deliver mail. It's not hard. But it's boring."
"Do you like it?"
"No."
They sat in silence. The coffee came. It was hot. It was bitter.
Eleanor added sugar. Three packets. Henry added nothing.
"Rose says you're shy," she said.
"I'm not shy. I'm quiet."
"What's the difference?"
He looked at her. "Shy is scared. Quiet is thinking."
She stirred her coffee. The spoon clinked against the cup.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'm thinking that you're prettier than Rose said."
Eleanor's face went warm. "She said I was pretty?"
"She said you were okay."
They both almost smiled.
---
The date lasted an hour.
They talked about small things. The weather. The neighborhood. The price of bread.
When they left the diner, the street was dark. The streetlights were on.
"I'll walk you home," Henry said.
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
They walked. The sidewalks were cracked. The buildings were old. A cat ran across the street.
They stopped in front of Eleanor's building.
"Thank you," she said. "For the coffee."
"Thank you. For coming."
He stood there. His hands were in his pockets.
"Goodnight," she said.
"Goodnight."
She walked inside. She climbed the stairs. She opened her door. She sat on the bed.
The room was quiet.
She didn't know what she felt.
---
Rose called the next day.
"How was it?"
"Awkward."
"Awkward good or awkward bad?"
"I don't know."
Rose sighed. "Did he kiss you?"
"No."
"Did he hold your hand?"
"No."
"Did he say he'd call?"
"He said he'd write."
Rose was quiet for a moment. "Write? Who writes?"
"Henry writes."
"That's strange."
"I know."
"Are you going to see him again?"
Eleanor looked at the piece of paper on her table. Henry's name. Henry's number.
"I don't know," she said.
---
Three days passed.
No letter. No phone call. Eleanor told herself she didn't care. She went to work. She sewed fabric. She came home. She ate soup from a can.
On the fourth day, a letter arrived.
Handwritten. Neat. The return address was a post office box in Brooklyn.
She opened it.
Dear Eleanor,
I'm not good at talking. I'm better at writing. So I'm writing this.
I liked the diner. I liked the coffee. I liked sitting across from you.
I want to see you again. But I don't know how to ask.
So I'm asking now. In writing.
There's a place I want to show you. It's not a restaurant. It's not a movie theater. It's a roof. My roof. The building where I live.
I know it sounds strange. But I want you to see the view.
Saturday? 6 PM?
— Henry
Eleanor read the letter three times.
Then she sat on the bed. The springs creaked.
A roof. He wanted to show her a roof.
She didn't know whether to be flattered or scared.
She decided to be curious.
---
She wrote back that night.
Dear Henry,
Yes.
— Eleanor
She mailed it the next morning. The mailbox was on the corner. The metal was cold.
---
Saturday came.
She wore a different dress. Blue. Simple. Less pink lipstick.
Henry was waiting for her on the corner of Franklin Avenue. He was wearing a jacket. His hands were in his pockets.
"You came," he said.
"You asked."
He led her to a building. Brick. Old. A sign on the door said Franklin Arms.
"This is where you live?"
"Third floor. But we're not going to my apartment."
"Where are we going?"
He opened the door. The lobby was small. The mailboxes were rusted.
"The roof," he said.
---
They climbed the stairs.
The steps were narrow. The walls were yellowed. The lightbulbs flickered.
Eleanor followed Henry. Her heart was beating faster than it should have been.
At the top of the stairs, there was a door. Henry pushed it open.
The roof was flat. Tar paper. A water tank in the corner. A milk crate near the edge.
The sky was orange and purple. The sun was setting. The city spread out below them.
Eleanor walked to the edge. The buildings stretched for miles. The bridges. The water. The lights starting to come on.
"This is where you come?" she asked.
"When I need to think."
"It's beautiful."
He stood next to her. "I wanted you to see it."
"Why?"
"Because it's mine. And I wanted to share it with someone."
She looked at him. His face was lit by the setting sun. His eyes were brown.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded.
They stood in silence. The city hummed. The water tank hummed.
"Henry."
"Yeah."
"Why did you write me a letter?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Because I couldn't say it out loud."
"Say what?"
He looked at the sky. The first stars were appearing.
"That I think you're beautiful. That I want to know you. That I'm scared of messing it up."
Eleanor's throat tightened.
"You're not going to mess it up," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm scared too."
He turned to look at her. His face was close. She could see the small lines around his eyes.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked.
"Yes."
He kissed her. It was soft. Brief. A question more than an answer.
When he pulled back, she didn't move.
"Again," she said.
He kissed her again. Longer this time.
The city hummed. The water tank hummed. The stars came out.
---
They stayed on the roof until the sky was black.
They talked about small things. Big things. Everything in between.
He told her about his mother, who had died when he was twelve. His father, who worked at the docks. His brothers, who had moved away.
She told him about her mother, who called every Sunday. Her father, who had left when she was young. Her job at the factory, which she hated.
"I want to do something else," she said.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Something with my hands. Something that matters."
"You sew fabric."
"That doesn't matter."
"It matters to the people who wear the clothes."
She looked at him. "You're kind."
"I'm honest."
"Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
He took her hand. His fingers were warm.
"I want to see you again," he said.
"I want to see you again too."
"Tomorrow?"
"The roof?"
"The roof."
She smiled. It was the first time she had smiled in weeks.
---
When she got home, she sat on the bed.
The room was the same. The crack in the ceiling. The brick wall outside the window.
But everything felt different.
She picked up the letter. Henry's handwriting. Henry's words.
She folded it carefully and put it in the drawer of her nightstand.
She lay down. The springs creaked.
She stared at the ceiling. The crack. The river.
She closed her eyes.
She dreamed of the roof. The water tank. The painted eye that wasn't there yet.
But it would be.