He told me about the vegetable garden his late wife had loved.
I told him about the paperback novel I carried in my purse for bus rides.
He admitted he hadn’t eaten a proper homemade dinner in nearly three years, even though the kitchen in his house was, according to him, “embarrassingly large.”
I told him my entire apartment could probably fit inside it.
He laughed.
The next morning, he called the catering company and asked if he could contact me.
Then he called me.
The morning after that, he called again.
And the morning after that.
Russell was predictable in a way I had never known men to be.
If he said he would call at eight, the phone rang at eight.
If he said he would pick me up at six-thirty, he was outside at six-twenty-five.
There were no games.
No disappearing.
No half-promises.
Three months later, we sat across from each other in a quiet restaurant where the waiter greeted Russell by name.
