The property manager was young and efficient. He, nearly seventy. Still young inside he felt. Invisible to women like her and eventually everyone else.

Or so he thought.

He’d almost forgotten why he’d come. Some inspection detail. Something he needed to ask about to finish his report.

She met him at the door and let him snap his photos. Waited. She was good at waiting—thirty-something and still alone, wondering when she’d become the kind of woman men stopped seeing.

“Beautiful apartment,” he said finally.

“Do you need an apartment?” Something in her voice—not just professional. A small risk.

“No.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I need to clear the brush from around my house. The fires.”

“I’ll see you in a year then.” She said it slowly, like she was offering him a small opening.

They paused at the threshold. He held the door for her. Seventy wasn’t dead. “Maybe sooner,” he said. “You manage other properties?”

She smiled—brief, but not unreadable. Not anymore.

The elevator door closed slowly between them, and with it, all the things neither had said, Maybe in a year. Or sooner.