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“No, I haven’t been born yet.”

“I have not, also.”

I put a glass of orange juice in front of him. He takes a sip. “This is very good, what is it, please?”

“Orange juice.”

“Could you write it for me, please?”

I write it carefully, in block letters. He says, “I know orange is a color. What is juice?”

“Orange is also a fruit. Like a vegetable, but sweet. It grows in warm places. Juice comes from squeezing fruits,” I add, as an afterthought.

Oliver tastes it again. “In my time we have a thing, but it has fizz. It is like Coke.”

“You have Coke but not orange juice?”

He looks uncertain. “Fruits are expensive? This is good, you have very nice food, here.” He blushes, as though he’s been overly familiar instead of just an appreciative guest.

“Would you like any more? There’s more if you are still hungry.”

“Oh . . .” Now he looks even more embarrassed.

I try to put him at ease. “Please don’t worry. You are more than a guest, this is your home whenever you are here. You are always welcome.” I smile. Oliver catches my eye, smiles, then looks down at his hands on the table. I had no idea he was so shy. I mean, he’s told me he was, but it’s strange to see.

I put him to work drying the dishes as I wash them, and show him where to put them away. He stands in the pantry, marveling at the labels on the cans and boxes of food.

“So many,” he says.

“Actually, we’re out of almost everything. Would you like to come to the grocery store with me?” We do need some food, but mostly I want to show him where the shops are, in case he ends up here without me anytime soon.

“The grocery store?”

“Why not? It’s a little early yet, so explore the house and I will get ready.”

I take a shower, then take my time getting dressed. I hear Oliver walking around downstairs, then the scraping of the piano bench on the floor. The “Metamorphosis” variations by Philip Glass begin rippling through the house, transforming the jangled mood of the morning into calm reflection. I sit on the bed, one sock on, shoe in hand, listening. Oliver’s playing is formidable, supple—I know he’s playing for me: there are no pauses, no rephrasing or rethinking; this isn’t practice, it’s a kind of audition. I decided years ago, Oliver. But of course, he doesn’t know that.

We walk to Jewel. Oliver has never seen a twentieth-century American supermarket, and he is overwhelmed immediately. He walks down the aisles of supersaturated color: soda pop, potato chips, candy, cleaning products. He sounds out the brand names. I steer him to the perimeter of the store. “All the real food is over here. Look, eggs. And butter. How about some yogurt?”

“What is it?”

“It’s thick milk. With fruit in it. Or not.”

I try to speed things along and start grabbing our usual groceries off the shelves. “Coffee, tea,” I tell Oliver. “Bacon. Olive oil. Spaghetti sauce. Spaghetti. Do you like spaghetti?”

He looks at the picture on the box and assures me that he does. Of course he does. “Garlic,” I tell him, dropping the small white head into his hand. “Basil.” I hand him a bunch. He stands puzzling over it, then sniffs it and smiles. “Carrots.” Oliver laughs; I’ve never thought of carrots as comical. “Here are the oranges.”

“Beautiful!” We get two oranges. Oliver says, “So many fruits.”

“What would you like to try? Bananas?”

“I’m not sure? Do I like it?”

“Yes. We’ll get a few different fruits, so you can taste them.”

“Sorry. They are expensive?”

“No.”