THE LAWYER

He was gone by morning. But the story stayed forever.

It was her Saturday ritual.

She always arrived on time. The parking gods knew she was coming. The same spot under the old oak was always waiting.

The car, as usual, coughed and wheezed to a stop—loud enough to turn heads. She loved that. The noise. The attention. She loved the car, too, almost as much.

She stepped out and inhaled. It was her favorite time of year.

Though the building was new, it reminded her of the pictures she’d seen of old southern homes. Vines climbed the white-painted walls with intention, cut carefully away from the windows. The outside always looked bright and clean.

The inside was a different story.

She took a breath, opened the door, greeted the volunteer at the front desk, and climbed to the second floor. Right turn. Second door from the end.

She knocked. There was never an answer. But she always knocked.

Her grandmother sat in front of the window. Hair in a tidy bun. Afghan folded neatly across her lap.

“Hello, Nana.”

Her grandmother didn’t turn.

“Hello, dear. Come sit with me.”

The granddaughter pulled up the chair near the dresser and took her hand.

There were never two Saturdays alike.

Sometimes her grandmother fell asleep in front of the window. Sometimes she told stories. They always began, Do you remember when…

The granddaughter never corrected her. She looked like her mother, now gone. It was easier this way.

She often thought she should record the stories. But she never did.

This time, her grandmother smiled and asked, “Have I ever told you the story of that boy?”

The granddaughter leaned in.

No. She hadn’t heard this one.

“I was young—too young,” her grandmother began, eyes sparkling. “Already a mother to your brother, who was well on his way to becoming a man himself. But this boy—well, he wasn’t a boy at all. He was a man.”

The granddaughter leaned closer. Just in case the story drifted away.

“Oh, he was a man,” her grandmother repeated, smiling again. “Not that your father wasn’t,” she added with a wink.

“I was working late that night. You always thought I worked too much. But that’s what people did. Or maybe I was just trying to impress someone. Who knows now. What a silly waste of time.”

She exhaled and went on.

“The A/C was broken. The landlord was cheap. It was one of those summers—you know, the kind that sticks to your skin. I’d taken off my shoes and stockings, unbuttoned my blouse—sometimes I’d just sit in my bra and skirt at the desk. Liberating, really.

“I thought I was alone.”

She chuckled.

“But when I stepped out to stand in front of the hallway fan—there he was. In boxers and an undershirt.”

The grandmother closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly, refreshed.

“We talked. I don’t know for how long. His voice was soft. His laugh was easy. His eyes… his eyes saw right through me, and somehow I didn’t mind.

“He touched my hand. My skin buzzed. And somehow, without effort, my skirt was gone. His shirt disappeared. It was tender. Loving. Honest. The most honest moment of my life.

“We lay there on the floor, in front of that fan, until we saw the light rise over the buildings. I wished the moon would come back.”

She smiled at the memory.

“We got dressed. No big goodbye. Just a kiss. Sweet. Then back to our offices.”

The granddaughter stayed quiet. Breathless.

“I went home. Made breakfast. Took a shower. Went back to work.

“But he was gone. Office empty. Fan removed. Air conditioning magically fixed.

“No one remembered him. Not even his name.

“For years, I wondered if I made him up.”

She leaned forward, patted her granddaughter’s knee, and whispered— “But then, of course, there was you. Nine months later.”

The granddaughter sat in stunned silence.
Her nana closed her eyes, and gently dozed off.