Monroe visited Annie’s apartment every day. Sometimes the visits were short—a quick check-in, a word or two about their day. Sometimes they were longer—lingering. He brought soup and gossip, and later, plantains and pork pernil, or bagels and lox. At some point, she had gotten better. The cough abated. She was back at the library with Kwesi and she was going to work—although as far as Monroe knew, she hadn’t felt up to running yet. But those encounters out of the building felt different now. Her face lit up when she saw him—and then she became shy. She needed time. But he kept dropping in, and neither of them said a word about his presence or her recovery.

They relaxed on her shabby sofa or at the cluttered kitchen table. He told her about the last time he saw Cal play. She told him about her bosses, her daughter’s latest text message. Or they sat in silence, drinking wine, happy, gazing at each other. It used to be that Monroe’s apartment was an oasis, but going into Annie’s place—where he wore jeans and soft button-down shirts, where he turned off his phone and took off his shoes at the entry—made him breathe easy, too. Until he got to the goodbyes. They were heart-poundingly bad. Or maybe they were the best.

Monroe never wanted to leave. Annie was fun and funny, and Monroe could not remember laughing this much in years. But when it was time to walk the five feet back to his own silent apartment, he found it more and more difficult. And yet he always looked forward to the end because then he got to touch her—he got to press her palm, feel his skin sliding against hers, feel her tremble.

After that first time, after she’d broken down and he’d tucked her in, he hadn’t really made physical contact because she was sick, and she insisted that she didn’t want him to catch what she had. And also because she needed to recover—not just her health, but maybe her spirits, too. So he got in the habit of wanting, of holding her hand in his too, too briefly when he said goodnight. And because he didn’t want to push her into that, either, he didn’t kiss her cheek, or her lips, or touch her hair like he wanted to. He held her hand.

There was something about a woman’s hands after she’d gotten past that first youth—her skin was softer, more settled over the fine bones and tendons. It was easier to trace the strength and frailty, all the things she had been through.

Eventually, the amount of time they stood holding hands became longer and longer. Until one day, Annie said, “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Maybe he said something. It was probably more of a groan as he bent his head down and touched his lips to her cheek, to her nose, and then her lips. Then her whole body was pressed against his.

“You can be very kind,” she murmured with a half laugh.

“Kind. Is that what you’re calling this?”

She was gratified to hear that his voice sounded a little strangled as she pulled him slowly toward her bedroom. Slow, because she kept getting distracted on the way, pausing to kiss the gray at his temples, to reach up high to his neck and the long, strong line that led to the stark ridge of his shoulder. “I’m calling you kind,” she murmured, “for letting me take some time to recover. I can’t believe you held off for so long, is all I’m saying.”

“I don’t know that I did hold off—I was here every day.”

He growled as Annie pressed her hands down low. He continued, “But you don’t have to keep doing exactly that right there—” He huffed. “I mean, I made my feelings clear. But if you don’t want this, I’ll stop.”

“I want this right now.”

“Good.”

Somehow, they managed to get out of the hallway and tumble onto the bed, his knee hitting the inside of her thigh, her back crushing his hand. But they hardly noticed as they moved apart a little to tug off their clothing.

“Next time,” she said, as she watched him take off his tee, “I’m going to make you wear your three-piece suit and slide every button open as slowly as you can.”

Her shirt was already off and she lay on the bed, watching him. His body was lean, as she knew it would be, not neat and planed off in perfect lines, just human and beautiful. She ran her hand down the mess of unruly hair that glinted on his chest, down his hip to where his jeans gaped slightly, and rimmed her finger around the waistband, enjoying the warmth and the strength and the life she felt.

He was watching her enjoying him, watching her fumble with the button of his jeans, seeing her impatience, her shyness, her attempt to be gentle with the zipper. But as she finally slid it down, tooth by tooth, over the swell of him, he slid his own hands under her ass and as her legs opened, he rubbed himself into her, and she caught her breath so quickly that it almost started off another coughing fit—a last remnant from her illness.

“Annie, are you all right?”

“Yes, just—” she pulled off her own yoga pants and underwear.

He grasped the top of her thigh in his big hands, his thumb fitting right into the groove of muscles along her inner thigh. He stroked carefully and lovingly and she fell back. “I’m not all right,” she babbled. “I won’t be all right until you’re inside me.”

He squeezed again as if to make sure, his other hand coming up to smooth softly at that thatch of hair where her legs joined and pressed down—eliciting another gasp from her—before he traced one finger delicately down through her folds, down, down to her ass again. She had waited for so long; she was ready before her clothing had come off. He continued to touch her, to make her mutter and thrash. By the time his eyes rose to hers, she could only gasp, “Condom’s on the nightstand.”

As he turned away from her, she rose to stroke his back, his butt. He laughed a little unsteadily before pulled the condom on and grasping her hipbones and entered her firmly and heavily.

As with everything he seemed to do, he took his time, moving in her carefully but deliberately, closing his eyes to savor the way she tensed and rocked under him. She listened to his harsh breaths coming out between clenched teeth. She loved watching him. She loved how his back muscles bunched and sweated under her sliding palms and the way he pressed down on her in just the right way. She whispered, “Do that again,” and her back arched under him, and for a while, she stopped watching and let herself feel.

Later, much later, while they lay in bed, still touching each other, still tracing with curiosity the lines of each other’s bodies, she tugged gently on a single straight silver hair among the curly ones, just down below his hipbone.

“Careful with that, woman. That’s my lucky hair.”

“I think you already got lucky.”

He kissed her. “I plan to keep my streak going for a good long time. Starting with that race we’re supposed to run next month—”

“But I haven’t trained in a long time.”

“Doesn’t matter how well we finish. I’ll be with you the whole way. Just like how I’ll be by your side when you attend Kwesi’s citizenship ceremony.”

How could she not love him? How could she not be scared? “You have a lot of plans for us.”

“I do.”

“I feel like for a while I forgot how to think ahead. Aside from moving to this apartment, living here. It’s not like our lives as people of color have ever been completely easy. But why has this year felt especially bad? I remember being here through New York City in the 70s and 80s, those scary years when the city seemed to be burning down, when it was nearly bankrupt. I worked downtown when 9/11 happened.”

“It feels bad because this year has been difficult. But we’ve survived worse. Thrived, even. I know you don’t feel like you’ve made a difference in this world—”

“I shouldn’t have whined about it. I’m sorry.”

He raised his head from the pillow to look at her. “Don’t apologize. Some days I feel that way, too. But not lately—not since I met you because I look forward to my time with you.”

She could feel the rumble of affectionate laughter in his chest, even before he spoke again. “Every day, you do something to change my world—to shake it up—even with a smile, or a gesture. You do something to me right now. I’m sorry that people like my son and your daughter are going to have to use all their youthful determination to fight for the future. I want to keep up with the struggle, too. But you—when I’m around you I feel curious again. Hopeful—for me.”

He picked up her hand again and kissed it. He didn’t let go.

Annie closed her eyes against a welling of tears. If he could hope, she could allow herself, too. She cleared her throat. “So where do we go from here?”

“We do what we’ve been doing—just like you told me once. But we do more and with more passion—more purpose. But without forgetting joy.”

“Proof that you can start anything at any age?”

Monroe snorted. “We’re not that old.”

She nodded and put her head on his chest. His heartbeat was strong. Annie whispered, “I’m ready again. I’m ready to do this.”