I waited for her to come out. There were convenient benches, but I did not sit; I was too agitated. When would she come out? Would she see me over here? Would she recognise me?
I knew I’d recognise her. Her silhouette was indelibly ingrained in my mind. Baby field mice are born with bone-chilling terror at the shape of a hawk wing shadow gliding across the terrain; she was that to me.
Most men would say she was stunning, flowing hair, long legs, voluptuous, but her shape was a hawk’s shadow; the terror was imprinted in me.