And Charlotte—black-haired gypsy Charlotte—was smiling her hectic smile as she watched me go, her eyes bright and damp and secretly miserable. I stood just one last moment and searched her face, searched it longingly for some hidden remnant of that expression I remembered, that expression after I kissed her: Not now, but maybe someday. But I could find no trace of it. There was no someday there. There was no someday at all. I never saw her again.
