I looked up. She was half-smiling, half-laughing, in that semi-shy, semi-mischievous way to which I would become addicted. Our eyes met, held. The room fell silent. Stripped bare, I stood on the threshold of birth. Gazing into fire. She was in white, all white against the redness. Was her hair open, as if freshly washed? Or is memory playing hide-and-seek with fantasy?
