I’m remembering today our first chance encounter
in the university literature stacks, she sitting
on the floor, cross-legged, reading a book
(later I would learn was a critical
study of Salinger, who I was writing
about) how when I stepped past her
and looked down, she looked up, and
like some scene from one of our
mutually studied novels, there was a connection
and then, somehow, we’re outside in darkness,
the campus in its full October autumn,
cigarettes, coffee, walking her to her apartment,
and that tenuous kiss, and a promise
to meet her again the next day,
and the next day and again the next day.
Writing the Day 
Wonderful post 🌹🌹
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