Friday night at 7:32. I saw you and everything in me stopped. You had ankle-high boots, maroon stockings, a grey wool skirt that went below your knees. Your brown jacket with fur cuffs had short sleeves, revealing on your left wrist a bracelet with five or six pearls fixed in place. Dark hair three fingers below your shoulders. Two days later, I can still close my eyes and see you, and everything still stops—except the bus, which always takes you away to the west. Come back.