She was there when I got back & it was easy to see why she stood sideways with her sisters in every snapshot pasted into her family’s photo album. The engines in her eyes were designed for another purpose, one that had yet to be exploited. Her neon lip gloss gave every word she said a luminous presence that made me think of lights along the pier on a foggy night. She claimed her mirror engaged her. It was the kind of dance St. Vitus could appreciate. I responded with a pipeline tango to music performed by a surf punk band called Horse Latitudes. My shirt got torn in the exchange of pleasantries. Love is not a dream returning, she said. A puff of smoke dissolving, leaving a feather-shaped print on the wall, like the shadow of a wing in flight.