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if that’s not an option? What else?”
    “Let’s see,” she says. There’s more rustling and movement on the line and then, “You could ask him for a cup of sugar or something. Don’t neighbors do that?”
    “What would I use the sugar for?”
    “Why does that matter? I dunno, to make cookies?”
    I consider this. “I could make cookies. Then after I make them, I could bring him some. That’s neighborly, correct?”
    “Sure.”
    “And this also affords two separate opportunities for conversation.”
    “Right,” she agrees.
    “Thank you for your time,” I say, and hang up the phone.
                 
     
    ***
     
     
    I’ve always enjoyed cooking. It’s a bit like science. You mix things together in a certain order in certain quantities to achieve the desired outcome.
    I have plenty of sugar on hand, and although I hate being deceitful, it’s one harmless white lie and it’s the means to an end. I never considered myself particularly Machiavellian, but I’m willing to try nearly anything at this point. At about three o’clock, I head over to the neighbor’s door and knock.
    No answer. I’m fairly sure he’s home because I can see his car, and I heard him entering his side of the building approximately an hour ago.
    I knock again a bit harder and the door swings open.
    “Hello,” I say. This is the first time we’ve been face to face and not just coming or going. He looks better than the last time I saw him. The gray circles under his eyes are gone and he’s slightly flushed, like he’s been exerting himself recently. He’s wearing a light brown shirt with dark smudges like he’s been rubbing dirty hands on it. His fingertips are tinged with some kind of black substance. If his car wasn’t sitting pristinely in the driveway, I would think he had been doing something mechanical. 
    Looking at the shirt makes me notice other things. Like I didn’t realize his shoulders are so broad. He’s attractive, in a conventional way. Although he has brown hair and brown eyes and that description seems rather dull and plain, his features are nice. He must have shaved recently. The scruff is gone revealing a patrician nose and strong jaw. His face is symmetrical. Humans find symmetrical features attractive because it’s a sign of superior genetic quality and developmental stability.
    He’s not smiling. He looks rather brooding, but it’s a good look on him.
    “Can I help you?” he asks and I realize I’ve been studying him without speaking for an unknown quantity of time.
    “Do you have any sugar?” I ask.
    “No,” he says before closing the door. He manages to eke out a quick “Sorry,” before the door shuts gently in my face.
    Well. That didn’t quite go as planned.
                 
     
    ***
     
     
    I rack my brain for the rest of the evening on how to initiate a discussion with Jensen, but to no avail. Not knowing what to do is a foreign sensation for me, but in this case, I am completely out of my depth. I have no idea how to make friends. I don’t socialize. The only people I have any type of relationship with besides my family is other students I tutor or lab with. And even then, it’s never social, it’s more professional.
    For the first time in my life, I start to wonder about myself. What is wrong with me that this is so difficult?
    The next morning, I decide to call Freya again. Maybe she will inspire another idea.
    “Hello?”
    “Freya?”
    “Lucy. Why do you always call at the ass crack of dawn?”
    I glance at the clock above my stove. “It’s seven thirty. Don’t you have class at eight?”
    “Holy shit!”
    Click.
    “Hello?”
    Two hours later I find Freya.
    I’m leaning against the wall directly opposite the door when her class ends. She exits, speaking with another student. When she sees me, she says something to excuse herself and then heads in my direction.
    She waves as she walks over, adjusting her bag. “If I didn’t already know what a