You spun me around at the Sunday salsa gathering, and I haven’t stopped thinking about your smile since. I wish I could remember more than just your moves—were you wearing a red hat, or was that all in my head?
We huddled under your umbrella while waiting for the bus, laughing awkwardly about the sudden downpour. I meant to ask your name but the bus came, and you disappeared into the mist. I owe you a coffee (and a dry sleeve).
You were reading Murakami and laughing quietly to yourself, wrapped in a bright green scarf. We kept making eye contact between stops, but I lost you in the Union Square crowd. Did you ever finish the book?
