Susane Colasanti Sampler

all the cookies, I unpack the rest while she’s dusting in the living room. She pretends she doesn’t know what’s going down, and I pretend the same thing doesn’t go down every week. This way I can help her out and she doesn’t have to be embarrassed. Which she would be if she ever admitted that her arthritis makes it really hard for her to unpack the heavy stuff.

“I’m an old lady. Haven’t you ever heard of respecting your elders?

Get over to that table and sit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I put your cookies out nice, the way you like.”

“Thank you.”

We sit. I eat. She watches me eat.

“So and?”

“Yes?” “What’s happening with the girl?”

“Nothing so far.”

“How can this be?” Mrs. Schaffer gets up to pour me a glass of milk.

“How can it still be like this?”

“I told you. She has a boyfriend. Well, had.”

“Oh? So, a new development?”

This would be referring to the potential development Mrs. Schaffer keeps hoping for. She met Rhiannon once outside my apartment and hasn’t stopped talking about her. Old people tend to get treated like crud in this city by teens, like almost getting knocked down by kids running past them on the sidewalk and stuff. So she couldn’t get over how sweet Rhiannon was to her. And now she thinks we should be together. At first I tried to explain that we’re just friends, but Mrs. Schaffer wasn’t hearing that. She only wants to hear that we’re together. So now I go along with her. To keep her happy and all.

“Sort of. I mean, yeah. Her boyfriend just broke up with her.”

“And why was this?”

“We don’t know.”