The note he found in the pocket of a borrowed coat read: "Third floor, green door, Friday at seven." There was no signature. Mirza assumed his friend the chef had left the invitation. Every month, he held dinners in unusual places. His friend was not answering his phone, and Mirza did not feel like spending another evening in front of the television.

A woman with packing tape stuck to her sleeve opened the green door. Behind her stood boxes, a dismantled shelving unit, and two identical toasters. Mirza raised a bottle of juice. "Am I late?" The woman looked at him, then at the note, and laughed so sincerely that admitting his mistake became easier.

Her name was Dunja. The dinner was in the building next door. She was sorting their belongings after a divorce and trying to decide which toaster belonged to whom. They had each bought one without knowing the other had already bought the same model. That small detail now seemed to sum up the last year of their marriage.

Mirza could have left. Instead, he asked whether she needed someone to hold the shelving unit while she removed the last screw. She said she did, but only that. She was not looking for advice, company, or a man to explain that everything happened for a reason. He held the shelf. He worked as a furniture restorer and noticed that one leg had worked loose long before the move.

While he was tightening the screw, her former husband arrived for the boxes. He stopped in the doorway at the sight of an unfamiliar man. Dunja explained the mix-up with the invitation, and he clearly found the explanation a little too convenient. Mirza felt the urge to defend himself. Dunja spoke first. "You came for your things. Everything of yours is by the window."

When the apartment was quiet again, she thanked him for not making a performance of being there. Mirza said he would not have known where to stand in a scene like that either. She preferred that admission to a confident smile.

He reached the dinner just before dessert. The next day, he left Dunja the number of a carpenter who repaired shelving and added his own, with a note saying that coffee had nothing to do with the repairs. She replied two weeks later. She had needed time for the new apartment to stop feeling temporary.

For their first arranged meeting, she waited outside a bookshop. She wore the same coat, now without the tape. Mirza asked whether this was the right door. Dunja took his arm and led him down the street. "Tonight it is."