This is how I remember her: hips first, then dress. A natural weave, cotton. Ivory. An embroidered flower sewn above her heart.
Fingernails bitten to the bone.
With my mind’s eye I see her more as motion than as solid object, a lithe twisting creature, never still, in fact the opposite of stillness: a ripple through air. That practiced way she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear: my love in a single image, one fluid movement.
Still, she doubtless does not know my name. Still, that is certain.