I saw you across the street today. You dyed your hair red. The lines in your face are so much deeper now. Your determined gait remains unchanged; the same as last I saw you when we were just twenty three years old. I was surprised to see you, but somehow I’ve always seen you. This afternoon it just materialized for those few moments. As I watched you walk away, I tried to think of some catalyzing memory but all I could see was your naked body on the floor of my rented room at Columbia. There wasn’t a bed, not even a mattress. But you were there and you were mine. And later on those nights, the descending sun and cool breeze coming down on the Hudson would have us retreat under the wool hitchhiking blanket that we bought from the Indians in Arizona. And you whispered sweet lies to me. And I believed them. Because I thought it would never end.