The first time I went to visit Yuri (not her real name), I was greeted with a kiss on the cheek at the door. She grabbed me and hugged me and said, “Thank you. I’m so proud of you!” in thick Bangladesh.
“Come in, come in.”
I smiled and stepped further into the apartment, indeed pleased with my initiative, yet thinking at the same time, that’s a weird thing to say. Standing in the middle of the living room, I surveyed the area as Yuri apologized for the mess.
Her place wasn’t messy. At least not more than the average apartment unprepared for visitors. I had come unannounced, as I didn’t know her number, only her apartment unit. I noticed there was no television in the living area. The walls were off-white and void of art. Furniture, spare. The color theme, bronze and beige. The home looked lived in. Cozy isn’t the word. Dingy, neither. Somewhere in between.
I held up a bag of Lindor truffles that I’d picked up on the way home as an offering.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You didn’t have to! You don’t have to bring anything when you come here. Just yourself. Yourself is enough.”
“Okay, well, I wanted to bring something.”
I took a few chocolate wrappers out the bag and left it on her counter. In exchange she handed me a banana, which I politely accepted.
“My mom is here,” she said,” ushering me to the bedroom to say hello and apologizing again for the mess to which I insisted, “It’s okay. Really. I’m messy too.”
I’m not.
She introduced me to her mom, who was sitting on Yuri’s bed wearing a pastel colored sari. When Yuri and I returned to the living room, I sat on a sofa that seemed lower than most, and Yuri sat beside me still smiling.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said again.
I knew this was all weird. Entering a stranger’s home in your apartment building just to say hi. Well, for no reason at all. This was abnormal. A language barrier prevented any complex dialogue. The basic things, though, we understood and we empathized and I knew all she really wanted was someone in the building to talk to.
I asked her if she went to work that day. She didn’t work. She received alimony from her husband, whom she recently divorced. The 11 years she mentioned when we first spoke was actually how long they’d been living together in the apartment, not the length of time they’d been divorced as I initially thought.
I would learn more about him and about them the next time I came to visit her.
I told Yuri I had just come from work and just wanted to say hi. Our exchanges were brief and trivial and we talked mostly about her, everything she said lightly coated with depression. A sigh between phrases. A sudden frown. She was lonely. I could tell she didn’t quite comprehend everything I said. She got the gist.
I stayed for about 15 minutes before leaving, banana in hand. Again on my way out she grabbed and pinched my cheek.
“I’m so proud of you for coming!”
“Me too…”
I was sure she didn’t realize what that meant. Or maybe she did. I did hope she realized she wasn’t the only one that needed someone.
