October 8, 2002:
The food court at San Francisco State. She's opposite me at a table for two. Her hair is died red with henna, shoulder length, wavy. She laughs: I can hear the musicality of her voice, her distinct way of rising an octave when she begins cracking up, throwing her head back, mirth to the heavens.
I awaken confused.
There's an electrical charge which still pulls me to her, even in dreams.