Almost always, it begins like this: a glance from the corner of an eye, head flashing towards motion. Already, curiosity murmurs like a rising cat. A turn to look again. It never matters what they’re wearing or what colors, except, that it does. It’s the way the clothing falls on them—the way they feel in your left brain, their form sneaking up like whispers. Soft, almost sensual. Quiet, but there. The way melancholy follows them, drawing you after. You imagine things to fill the place of answers you can’t get. What ifs and maybes that seem emptier somehow for their being. Regret and saudade for someone you never knew. And it shocks like the suddenness of intimacy between strangers.