Climbing out of that tiny, doorless yellow roadster, I knew I’d never been, couldn’t ever be, more in love. We’d come to spend the day seeing the sights as if we were strangers to the city we called home, to spend the night exploring the uncharted landscapes of each other. I could only look at you, not the closely fitted outfit you wore, the drape of the white blouse across your breasts and the skirt around your waist and legs, but the smile that would overwhelm any crescent moon, that made my lesser, girlish body, the person it contained, feel desired, seem unusually right. I could only wait for the sun to set on this prelude. If asked in that moment to describe you, I would have simply said, You’ll know her when you see her. That lover’s phrasing, proper for the moment, was insufficient language with the sunrise, for the nurses and police, to exact unquenchable revenge for your unexpected fists falling on my flesh and soul.