Some things stick with you, for no particular reason, at least for no particularly deep reason; simplicity, as in elegance, or simplicity, as in simple-mindedness, the two are easily confused and equally impenetrable.

Nevermind that it's been how many years (at least five); nevermind she has a kid (she always looked comfortable with one back then, when it was her nephew); she's still stunningly beautiful. How can that be? The memory tumbles out of space, effortlessly like a sheet. Simple, pure, and frustrating. It's out and it's not going away.

Nothing is reconciled. I don't know what to say. In fact, I don't think either of us ever knew what to say. It works out in our favor at the moment, since it's been a long time, and we're only here for a second. She seems to be doing well.

It's okay. I think we both want to be nice, keep true to whatever wasn't, fondly. We at least accomplish that. We say goodbye, she walks off, I walk in a circle. We say goodbye again.

Later, when she's gone, you and I can both agree, she's beautiful, even though we don't know why. We almost say it out loud, but we stop short. We're both a little embarassed, because it sounds so simple.

It puts me in a good mood. I walk home. I'm only here for a few more days and I'm planning on enjoying myself. When I leave, I'll be happy to see my friends, and dreary, lovely Washington.