The first time I saw her she was sitting cross-legged on the hood of a police car in the parking lot of the county jail.
Indian style we would have called it when I was a kid, back before using group descriptors as the adjectives they are was considered taboo.
I considered asking which term she preferred.
Unable to decide if that sounded like the worst pick-up line in history or exactly the type of insightful query that would pique her interest I moved on.
The second time I saw her she was trudging through three feet of still falling snow.
Only her eyes were visible. Peeking out from the layers of cloth she had swaddled herself in to hold off the freezing winter.
I considered offering her a ride.
Unable to decide if that sounded like a serial killer seeking his next victim or exactly the hero she was hoping for in her hour of need I moved on.
The third time I saw her I was so overcome with relief that I remember almost nothing else about our environment.
Simply knowing that she had survived the maelstrom was enough to erode all other items of importance into mere pebbles that turned the world to static.
I considered introducing myself.
Unable to move, much less speak, I instead bathed in the warmth of knowing she continued to exist long after she had moved on.
The fourth time I saw her I was standing on a stage behind a microphone, having just forgotten every word of the poem I was about to recite for the crowd.
She entered the bar like a whirlwind, last to arrive, but immediately the only audience that mattered to my long-shattered mind.
I didn’t consider at all, but instead merely spoke.
We’re all hearing these words and thoughts for the very first time,
in this moment.
Perhaps tonight is the night we shall finally move on together.