Sara
I was walking near the water when I saw her. I had just passed the Boston Harbour Hotel where the great flag drapes, placidly, behind the tourists taking photographs. I had stepped aside to avoid colliding with a grey-haired man staring at his phone and she had appeared, there, in the approaching crowd. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen her since we were both children and that I only got a glimpse of her before she walked by; I was sure that it was her. It was the hair that did it, it was that same dirty-blond cascade falling down her neck. She seemed hurried and by the time I thought of opening my mouth, of saying something, she had passed me by. I should have caught up with her then, should have run a little and tapped her on the shoulder, but then what would I have said? What would we have done?
I’ll be leaving this city in a couple of days anyway and my life feels complete the way it is.
