LONNIE’S THIN ARM, SCATTERED WITH FINE BROWN HAIRS. THE muscle of her thigh, the planchette-shaped knot of her kneecap. I furtively stare at women on the street. I often see the back of her head on the sidewalk—those thick wilted curls, sometimes drawn up to show off the elegant stretch of her neck, like a fawn’s. Though I don’t exactly want to find her, I run to catch up anyway, wait for her to turn so I can catch a glimpse of her face. I can’t decide if I expect to find those lovely features, or, as in a horror movie, some demon mask—bloodied sagging skin, pus seeping from the eyes. It’s always neither. The woman turns and it’s just someone else’s face—ordinary and nothing like Lonnie’s, so much so I can’t believe I’d thought it could be her. I walk away disoriented, confused.

I am in an art museum again, desultory pieces of her accosting me from all around. Sometimes, it really does seem to be her. A double of her. As if she’d been someone else the whole time.

I saw her once crossing Fifth Avenue. Her face flashed toward me; she looked beautiful in the sun.

She was heavier the next time I spotted her; her frame had filled out around the middle in an unflattering way. She was ducking around the corner of an aisle at the Strand.

The third time, I was absolutely sure it was her. We were standing next to each other on a crowded train, our hands nearly touching on the pole, and I could see her reflection in the window as we passed through the long tunnel between Fourteenth Street and Brooklyn Bridge. She looked older, tired; her skin was bad. Our eyes caught in the window, both of our faces twitching with recognition—her lips forming a smile for a brief second, and then settling back into a firm line. Was that smile meant to mean forgiveness or was she merely fighting off a whole life of politeness? Was she trying to place my face? Had I changed too? I’ll never know.

There are a million different ways life can spin out away from the present moment. Sometimes it seems that everything was always happening all at once, the way when I was high James and Carlow had been old men and young boys at the same time. Lonnie was there, standing in front of me, and also Lonnie was gone, gone, gone.