He only thought about her when the weather turned cold, when the sudden appearance of fur-lined boots clomping on pavement, of breath steaming visibly from lipsticked mouths, of wool gloves and scarves rustling quietly against thick winter jackets added together to conjure up her memory.

Even then, she came to him in pieces: the soapdish hollow of her clavicle. She came to him in sideways glances: pretending not to look back over her shoulder as she tossed her hair. She came to him as single words spoken, as textures he could almost feel pressed against his fingers.

When she came to him like this, he would stop midstride, concentrate, try to coalesce the parts of her into a full, vivid whole, before the jostling passersby could bring him back to the present, where he stood alone on the sidewalk, feeling oddly hollow, a dull, cold pain in his stomach, his throat, his chest.