I vaguely remember her silhouette. Her pale torso, barely visible in the dimly lit room. She gave me company in exchange for my voice; my babbling, storytelling, extraneous explanations; I always had something to say about everything. The light was still warming up, and I could never describe what it was that made us wait, but it took time. She had a poetry to her, one that seemed to overcome my level of impatience, and convinced me the time was spent exceptionally well. Juxtaposed lips and blind eyes became the pastime I’d habitually revert to as the sluggish light took its time. Our light was warming up.