Monroe Webb had bought his apartment for a song in 1992—literally. A co-writing credit on a hit single had allowed him to put a down payment on his two-bedroom in central Harlem. Now he owned his place outright. He was on the co-op board. He boasted eight, sharp, bespoke suits that hung reverently in the airy walk-in closet he’d installed in 2004 after his son had moved out. And the nervous Asian woman now in front of the board was willing to hand over 5 times what he’d paid long ago for the privilege of living in the same building as his black ass.

It was always a jolt to find out how high the prices in his HDFC building had climbed despite the income restrictions placed on prospective buyers. And with that jolt came a mixture of fierce pride in the neighborhood that had grown around him (and truthfully in his investing skills) along with a feeling of unease about the changes, about the new people coming to his neighborhood and painting it over and “cleaning” it up. Even if they weren’t overtly trying to make America great again, it made him apprehensive. People like Annie Wu made him worry.

She wore a linen shift dress, a simple cut that someone had probably told her was elegant but on her frame hung like a plain t-shirt. At least she sat straight, her feet not quite making it to the ground. She’d stretched her toes, probably to steady herself, but he found himself noticing the line of muscles of her smooth calves. He had a tantalizing peek of the rounded underside of two kneecaps, set slightly apart.

And then his gaze caught at her hem and he realized what he was doing. His eyes snapped up, and he glowered at the paper in front of him. But quick Annie Wu had caught that glower and instead of averting her gaze, she mock-frowned right back at him.

It should have been exactly the wrong thing for her to do. This was her board interview—he was one of her interviewers.

Even as he tried to impart with his brows the gravity of her situation, he noticed the laugh lines blossoming around her eyes, and he was struck momentarily by how vivid and fine her face was, a face that seemed mobile even when she was perfectly still. Or, in this case, animated by her open amusement—at him.

She didn’t seem like she would be a particularly restful neighbor.

Her eyes danced until Ms. Hernandez asked her a question, and she turned back to the other members with the appropriately supplicating expression of a prospective tenant trying to prove that she was humble yet solvent, meek yet friendly, a perfectly behaved potential addition to the community who would most of all, not upset the delicate balance of their apartment building.

“You’re moving from a very different neighborhood in Queens. Why did you choose this one?”

“I love the park and all of the buildings and the sense of community,” she said. “I already feel like a part of it—”

Uh oh.

“I want to get to know you all better and I am going to try to be respectful of everyone who already lives here, too. I want to participate in the life of the neighborhood. I mean, as someone whose interest has probably driven up the prices in this building, I… I don’t think I can say I’m not like a gentrifier—but I have really good intentions and I want to contribute! I just want to be a part of all of this and make friends and be a member of a real community.”

She concluded with an awkward laugh that echoed through the room.

She really had said it aloud—the G-word. After that remark, he definitely couldn’t like her.

He assumed the rest of them would think the same. So, after a few more softball questions, some social smiles and handshakes, after they dismissed her, he noted, “That seems pretty open and shut.”

“Yes,” Ms. Hernandez said, gathering coffee cups. “She’ll make a reasonable addition to the building.”

Everyone else nodded. “Wait,” Monroe said confused. “I don’t understand. She basically said she was going to come in and meddle.”

“She said she wanted to contribute and be friendly.”

More nods.

“But she said—”

“Monroe, this neighborhood is changing—has changed—whether we like it or not. Best we can do is take charge of the way we want it to happen—and make sure that a chunk of cash goes to the co-op in the meantime. Maybe finally fix that elevator.”

Mrs. Ali from 6, always the conciliator, said soothingly, “She’s a lifelong city employee. No pets. No small children. Her daughter’s starting graduate school out of state. And Annie lived more than 10 years in her last place. Financially secure enough but well within the income restrictions. It’s a delicate balance finding someone who fits our requirements. And she doesn’t look likely to have raucous parties. She’s not obnoxious—”

“But she’s awkward.”

“You don’t have to be her best friend. We were always going to approve her.”

“Even after that gentrifier remark?”

Ms. Hernandez said, “It was awkward but true. Every time a unit sells here it drives prices up, Monroe. That’s a blessing and a curse. At least she looks to be staying for a long time.”

“She could get a loud partner—” even that sounded a little thin to him. “Screaming grandchildren.”

Five pairs of eyes swiveled toward him. It occurred to him briefly—alarmingly—that these four women, by the roles they’d carved out for themselves in family and community, were more aligned in this instance with Annie Wu than with him.

“And just what do you have against grandchildren, Monroe Webb?”

Annie was jogging along the cobblestone paths of Marcus Garvey Park when she spotted Monroe Webb again.

The man always seemed to see Annie at her worst. First, she’d been in that plain, terrible dress she’d worn for the board interview. And then two days ago, she’d been wearing a pair of old cargo shorts and a paint-stained t-shirt when she’d encountered him again. Of course, he lived in graciousness and style across the hall from her. She’d been kicking a box through her doorway and wiping sweat from her neck when he appeared. And just as he paused to put in his key, her daughter—her beautiful daughter whom Annie had taught to value herself by asking for more—had said, “Ma, you should have done something about the cheap laminate floors all these apartments seem to have before you moved in. And you’ll need all new appliances, of course.”

Monroe Webb seemed to pause and stiffen when Jenny punched the words cheap and new.

“They’re fine,” Annie said, perhaps a tad too loudly. “It’s a beautiful place.”

But if he heard her, he didn’t say anything. He opened the door just wide enough for her to catch a glimpse of the glowing light from the room, an ice blue chair, like a sculpture, standing on a pristine white rug over gleaming floors. Then the hallway was darker and empty once again.

“What, ma? I just want you to have nice things. For once.”

Her daughter wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. She was probably worried about what her own impending move would do to Annie.

Well, Annie was doing fine, although it was a relief after unpacking the most essential of essentials to go back to a routine again, to go back to running.

So now here she was sweaty and red-faced, during her first run in days. Her t-shirt was drenched and she kept stumbling over the unfamiliar ground of Marcus Garvey Park. But she wanted to train for a 10k. And Marcus Garvey was where Monroe Webb was apparently running, too. Beautifully, of course. Because, she sensed, that was how he did everything.

It would be nice if for once he could see her looking good. Because he always looked good.

It wasn’t that she was interested, of course. She’d dated after her divorce. But the last one had been a while ago and she missed having sex. Not that she should contemplate starting anything with Monroe Webb. He was right across the hall, for one, and that could get messy. She planned on living in that apartment—in this community—for a long time, for the rest of her life. But even without that complication, she wouldn’t get involved because, well, he so plainly did not like her at all. It was in his body language—the way his shoulders stiffened and his full, dark lips paled as they pressed together. In the way that—aside for that one time in the co-op board meeting—he refused to really look at her.

Right after the board meeting, Annie reminded herself, in which he’d been the only one to vote against her application.

Ms. Hernandez had spilled it—how deliberate the slip had been, Annie hadn’t stopped to analyze—when she stopped by the day Annie moved in.

She’d been indignant, although she didn’t show it while Ms. Hernandez told her more about Monroe Webb. Apparently, the older woman assumed Annie would want to hear all about their handsome neighbor. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

Still, when Ms. Hernandez left and when the door was firmly closed, Annie had slapped her hands on the counter and tried to think of why the man had taken such an inexplicable dislike to her.

Until she remembered that she’d practically winked at him during her interview.

She hadn’t been able to help herself. He’d been scowling at some papers in front of him, documents that presumably had information about her—her tax returns, testimonial letters, things that she’d considered dull. And yet imagining that he’d found something scandalous in them amused her so much that she’d… well, she couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. She was nearly fifty-five and still battling inappropriate reactions. Those had always been her downfall.

Or maybe he’d thought she was trying to pick him up right there during the meeting.

And then she couldn’t even be angry. He was a single man living in a building filled with older women and young couples. Apparently, he’d been in a huge, number one pop group when he was younger. But when she’d Googled she hadn’t found any shirtless boy band pictures. And now he was stylish, mysterious, and aloof. And he wasn’t a young man, either. She was bad at ages, but even she could see that his age was just right.

Not that he was for her.

She remembered abruptly that in that same co-op approval meeting she’d also lost her head so completely that she’d made that awkward speech about gentrification.

Even mid-run, she wanted to kick herself, except she’d probably trip and fall right in the front of the playground.

Well, it wasn’t as if he—and all of her new neighbors, really—didn’t have reason to mistrust her. She wasn’t from here. She looked like change. And they’d already had enough changes here in the last couple of years.

That complicated mishmash was part of what she’d been trying to acknowledge at the board interview so of course it had come out garbled. Maybe she wasn’t that gentrifier: It wasn’t like she planned immediately on buying cases of European organic mineral spring water at the Whole Foods and calling the cops any time kids hung out for more than 3 minutes on the stoop. She wanted the people who already lived in this neighborhood to be able to stay here, right alongside her. But even if she didn’t want to be intrusive, even with the best of intentions, she was helping to tip some sort of small scale. She was a ripple in the ecosystem—but she hoped that maybe she could offset it, make friends, make ties. She wasn’t chasing fashion and luxury and a few more square feet of space. She was here for the long haul.

But Monroe Webb couldn’t know that—not when so many people who were moving into the community were certainly doing that while claiming that they meant no harm.

And so, he didn’t like her.

She understood his reasoning, but it hurt; she couldn’t really like him much either. She might want to lick the line of his cheekbones, she could envy his style, and his voice could make her melt—but she couldn’t like him.

That was what she decided as she slowed, sweaty, tired, but still marveling at the trees bowing across the winding paths, the hills leading to views of the city. She hadn’t exactly enjoyed her run, but she did feel happy about finishing and about her surroundings. She was stumping toward a water fountain when she saw him again—and this time there was no doubt that he’d spotted her.

He gave her a short nod as he sailed past her. His breath even, his stride long and smooth. Unconsciously, she stopped to watch him—admire him—as he rounded the corner and disappeared into the cover of trees.

Then she shook the sweat out of her hair and made her way slowly back home—back to the stately, solid 1900s building, with the tiny handprints on sidewalk out front, and stone steps polished and worn where so many feet had passed before hers, into the hallway where the scent of cooking—the spices unfamiliar to her and delicious—curled around her and beckoned her to her apartment, her place, her refuge.