Man Cave

When he heard Renée's flip-flops on the stairs, Barry started the coffee. She didn't talk before she had her caffeine, just sat at the table looking sleepy, an imprint of the sheets on her cheek. Her hair wasn't slicked back as usual, but eddied all over her head. Renée was one fourth African-American and three quarters Irish, and Barry understood that this mixture was important to her, a huge part of her personal trajectory. Even for work she straddled communities—as a city planner and grant overseer, she acted as a bridge. Barry swelled with pride over that. He was more proud of her work than he was his own. He knew the names of most of the Irish step dancers in Quincy, he knew which businesses were black-owned in Boston, he'd vacationed on Martha's Vineyard. He felt privileged, if only by proxy, to be an insider with several communities when he was selling office furniture, with a specialty in chairs.

"It's nice to have a minute with you," Barry said. "I know with Lynnie gone we have endless time together, but this weekend, we may not get a chance to talk."

As he said this, he realized that it didn't quite ring true. It wasn't like they'd been talking a lot lately.

He leaned his hip against the counter, waiting in front of the coffee pot. He crossed his legs.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm just butt-tired. Lynnie and I sat up and talked."

"Talked about old times?" Barry asked.

"More about the present," Renée said.

"Did she say anything last night? Any news?" Sometimes Renée was the bridge between Barry and Lynnie too, a thought that gave him a pang, that he was the one who had to ask for the news of his daughter.

"Her roommate sounds," she gave a little, fake shiver, "Creepy, I guess." She stretched.

The pot quieted, and Barry fixed them each a cup. They stood at the counter fixing their cream and sugar. They were close to the same height, right around five feet ten inches. He relished that symmetry of them. He'd dated short girls before Renée, but it was more relaxing to not have to look down.

They moved to the family room and sat on the couch. This year Renée had redecorated the house with splashy colors and contemporary furniture. He liked the way it looked now. He was glad she wasn't into tiny floral patterns anymore. Or large floral ones, for that matter. He cracked the window behind them, letting in fresh air from a chilly September day. He could smell a fire burning in some neighbor's fireplace, first time he'd smelled that this year. This was the first morning he'd worn slippers, first one she'd worn her robe. They were quiet. Renée rustled her locket back and forth to shift the clasp to the back of her neck. He'd seen her do this countless times and thought, what a beautiful neck.

He considered telling Renée his orthopedist's bad sex joke, but he thought better of it. The week before, Barry had had trouble not choking up as he left the orthopedist's. "So that means no running?"

"That's right," the white-haired doctor said. "Walking, biking, swimming—those are good choices. Low-impact. Tell your wife I said more sex would be good."

Barry made it halfway through the waiting area and then turned around, letting himself back into the doctor's quarters. The orthopedist stood at a counter speaking into a Dictaphone—about Barry—summarizing the appointment for his records.

When Barry cleared his throat, the orthopedist swiveled to face him.

"Would orthotics help?" Barry asked. "I went to this runner's clinic …"

"Orthotics wouldn't help. You've got arthritis. You've got a systemic problem. Plus some injury. Pounding will damage that knee, orthotics or not."

Renée reached over and fingered Barry's wedding band, fat yellow gold. "It might be time to...