First there is the immediate impression of it: of soft lips, a scent. The awareness: another human being has just hovered in your presence, cut back all that cool and risked it, trusted you. I was wanted and chosen! Unique.

Later is the lingering feeling of lightness, the swooning, which is strong, if it ebbs. You can't see the future but know it is there. Right now you are filled with something warm and energetic, and clutch it like soap.

Soon enough you are working, taking tasks, executing, and the memory seizes you only once in a while, dragging you away from your focus. You fight back to that focus with dutiful purpose.

A long year is spent wondering just what you're missing. Food and its sensual pleasure is with you, and an hour or two can go by just preparing and eating it. That takes care of some time before toothbrush and bed take you up.

Eventually it's mostly sounds you are aware of: the refigerator coil, a truck on the road. You can't think what but you know there was something good, somewhere, not long ago.

Sometimes you remember a kiss. But you know you are old. It was the sort of thing young folks have, if they are lucky, and no business for you now. There is a pleasant light sometimes from the windows and there are many records you enjoy: cello, snare, human voice. The television has faces in it, and they tell jokes and sometimes distract you.

Soon you have just a bed, a soup pot, and a porch. Grass grows, cars pass. All having a rhythm. People walk past and their fashions change. You hear snippets of talk, you reconstruct their lives: a broken-down Civic's getting fixed; a sister is leaving for Florida. A couple of teenagers neck behind a tree—are they strong and passionate? Or is it a fleeting experiment which they'll wind their ways out of, with biting teeth, and then quickly forget? The sun sets beautifully. You have just a bed and your meals are brought. The others talk incoherently. You try crossword puzzles but can't think of the words. The light grows dim. The attendants are polite but shallow, not kind. The mushy food grows dull. You feel you've just forgotten something, and what is it, dammit? You have one long night mesmerized by the pulsing of blood in your ears and the high drone and the color of your eyelids and it's done.