I get the call from Mike, the handyman, that he has arrived. I walk down East 7^th street I see a medium sized man, long dark hair pulled into a greasy pony tail, standing by a bicycle holding a bag of tools.

He regards me, looks as surprised by me as I do by him. I’m not sure why we are both so surprised by each other. People’s phone voice never seems to match their appearance, I guess.

I unlock the door to the building and we walk up the stairs. PSA’s flash into my head about the young single girl letting the strange man into the apartment, and horrible things happening that the girl later tells Oprah about. I suddenly hope the strange man I live with is home. Maybe intimacy is always defined by a lack of intimacy with someone else.

I show him the door frame, make awkward small talk. He doesn’t have a tape measure. I open up my drawer to loan him mine. We both look at the contents of my drawer: a St. Anthony necklace my best friend gave me, Ultra-Thin Trojans, Marlboro Lights, eye drops and water proof mascara. I’m struck by my lack of organizational skills, how those items seemed to naturally belong together when I put them in that drawer yesterday.

I quickly grab the tape measure and shut the drawer. As he takes the measurements he says, “If you don’t mind my asking, Sarah Jane, that really is a lovely name, by the way, how do you keep your self occupied, I mean, how do you occupy your time?”

I ignore the fact I find it a weirdly framed question possibly based on condoms next to a tape measure. I say, “Oh, uh, I’m a nurse. So, I, you know, got a job here as a, uh, nurse.” Just as I’m hoping he’ll hand me back my tape measure and ride off on his bicycle, his whole face lights up.

“Wow! I mean, wow, that’s quite a job, really difficult. You have to lose a couple patients at work and then just come home like nothing happened. That’s tough. I think you’ll agree, don’t people who get a lot of cards and flowers like, live? You know, get out of the hospital and live? Then the ones that don’t have any friends or visitors, they just, like, give up and slip away, huh?"

I thought about his question. I didn’t know whether I agreed with the cliché or not, but I thought this guy was actually saying something about himself. Our interaction took a sharp turn. We went from “Okay, it’s looking like a standard, hollow, pre-hung will do the trick,” to figuring out what immeasurable forces keep a heart beating.

I wondered if Handy-Man Mike saw himself as the person in the hospital with tacky Mylar balloons everywhere, and an overbearing mother telling a timid wife the proper way to hover. Or, did he see himself as the lonely, sullen, TV watching patient, who always tries to get the nurse to chat just to pass the time.

I decided that I didn’t know the answer to his question. I gave him a sing-song response that validated what he said without specifically agreeing. With a big smile I said, “Alright, then—we’ll be in touch, Mike, I really appreciate your work.”

He looked sad to be leaving. I felt guilty for not being more comfortable with the situation. Although I have a considerable amount of loneliness myself these days, I couldn’t indulge in conversation with him for some reason. I got no sense he had any mal-intention. In fact, he seemed very kind and concerned I have a proper door.