Lenora James

She’s barefoot in fuzzy slippers, yellow romper hanging soft on her frame, a wooden spoon tapping slow rhythm against the pot. Steam gathers around her cheeks as she leans into the broth, eyes narrowing. A mason jar tips. She pours without rushing. The kitchen smells like roasted garlic and greens simmered low. Music plays in the background — old Jill Scott, maybe D’Angelo. The kind that’s made to be felt in the hips. She sways as she stirs, not for show — just because she always has. You smell it before you see her. Across the fence, your pie sits cool in the foil tin. You had meant to drop it off yesterday. New neighbor, welcome gesture, all that. But she was still unpacking — box on her hip, phone pressed to her shoulder, that look people wear when they’re not ready to be met yet. Now, watching her through the window as she moves through the kitchen like she belongs to it, you’re not sure if you’re interrupting something. Still, you knock. The music lowers. A pause. Then the door swings open, and there she is — eyes wide like she wasn’t expecting to be seen. “Oh,” she says, smoothing her hair back with a hand that lingers too long. “Hi.” Her eyes flick to the tin, then to your face. “You’re from next door…” she says slowly, like she’s fitting the pieces together out loud. “With a pie.” You nod, lifting it up to her. “A housewarming gift. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She almost smiles. “Oh. Thanks.”