August 15, 2017:
Elated, on the crowded city street, taking a day for yourself. Waiting for the light to change, someone in the crunch knows you, a pretty girl with her family. "Hi!", she says, calling you by name. You've met, but you don’t remember her. Has her appearance changed? Still. She's friendly and the two of you agree to connect again soon. "Write your number in my book," she offers. She doesn't want to do it herself, she wants you to write it. "I like having the boys I meet write here themselves," she smiles. Your name is already there, with a number from years back, one you barely remember, in neat writing you no longer possess. You cross it out, adding your current number in your contemporary scrawl. "You can read that?", you ask, not so certain. "Oh yes," she insists, smiling. Time now to be on our ways.