The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu

stood frozen in place for, what? Five, ten, fifteen minutes. Long enough to invite malicious and concerned glances. How was it that I never seemed to understand time when Judith was around? Too fast or too slow, or as in this case, not at all. An hour had sixty minutes and a minute had sixty seconds and the hour could be broken into halves and quarters and tenths and even fifths, and yet none of these parcels of time could be counted on to hold their weight at these moments. Judith disappeared into what I hoped was the warm comfort of her house with a slight nudge of her shoulder and a repositioning of her bag around the crook of her forearm. It was time for me to move on, but when I came to my house I didn’t even pause to consider going in. I walked past it to the end of the corner, where instead of looping around the circle, I turned right onto Rhode Island Avenue—an unexpectedly wide and open road—and continued north until I reached a bar, where I stopped and drank until I knew everyone in the house next to mine had fallen asleep.
    Three days later Judith rang my doorbell at just a few minutes past eleven. I had forgotten what my doorbell sounded like. I couldn’t even remember the last time it had been pressed. When you live alone for as long as I have, you forget your private world is only an illusion created by a door and a key. The sound of the doorbell, harsh and sustained like the shrill cry of an old man, seemed capable of shattering all the windows and glass and tearing down the roof over my head if pressed long enough. When it rang my heart pressed against my chest and stayed there until I caught my breath and reordered the world to allow for such things as guests and doorbells.
    Judith was patient with my coming down the steps. She pressed only once, knowing, perhaps from her bathroom-window view, that I was at home. As I came down the steps I could see her through the octagonal windowpanes on the front door. The dark orange streetlight added a touch of unexpected sadness to the scene. She was blowing into her hands for warmth, and behind her a few stray snow flurries drifted past. Do we plan encounters like this, or do they really just happen naturally? As I took the last few steps I thought of Bogart, with his dame-slapping ways, and the desperate women who came running to him at night.
    When I opened the door Judith’s back was turned to me, her arms wrapped around her shoulders as she watched the falling snow. She wasn’t wearing a coat. She was acting reckless. When she turned to face me she smiled wholeheartedly and pressed the palm of her hand against my face.
    “Cold?” she asked.
    “Freezing.”
    “Then invite me in.”
    We fumbled our way up the staircase, which grew darker as we neared the top floor. Before I opened the door I mumbled an apology about not expecting visitors and the general state of my apartment. I had cleaned it just the night before, but expectations are easier to bear when they’re set as low as possible.
    “I wish I had a coat to throw dramatically on the couch. It would fit the moment better, wouldn’t it?” Judith had just cast a quick sidelong glance at the apartment, noting without apparent judgment the size and condition of the furniture and walls. It seemed enough for her that the place existed, that I indeed had the proverbial roof over my head and did not, despite my obvious isolation, live in a state of sordid squalor. It may very well have been relief that had crept into her voice and relaxed her enough to set us off on this game.
    “I was just thinking the same thing,” I said. “I could go to the closet and get you one.”
    “Can we start all over?”
    “From outside?”
    “No. That would be too much. I can just knock on the door.”
    I went to the closet and pulled out a long black wool coat that my uncle had given me for formal occasions. Judith held the coat up before putting it on and said, “Perfect.” The shoulders, bulge, and length looked