The last time I saw her was the day I gave her the first scarf. She was a year older than me. I was sixteen. She brought a small photograph that she had framed that morning.

We walked along the streets and the sunlight grew brighter, almost unbearable for that time of year. We hardly spoke. She asked if I would remember and I showed her the scarf. She said "I know, here." then reached into a canvass bag to give me the photograph. At that moment her loose hair caught on the brass button of a passing buisinessman's suit-coat. He was walking the other way, striding in long yards that made his coat flap in the wind. She was yanked around and forced into a pirouette which ended in a sweep that threw the photograph from her hands. The man was visibly confused and embarrassed. His white face reddened. He looked as if she had struck him and he stammered as he attempted to untangle the knot that was holding her to him. At the same time he didn't know if he should be touching her hair because this contact seemed too personal - as if he might accidentally tighten the knot that connected them.