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I stood near the door, crowded between the shoulders of the city in late December, with a cold hand on a cold metal bar, the low caffeinated rumble of the train on the rails, a hunger grumbling from below as the train screeched to a stop in the frozen morning, the doors rattling open, plumes of hot air rising from the mouths of the passengers waiting outside to board, shifting and pushing as they entered, like beans poured into a grinder, settling in their places, and, as the doors clattered shut, the girl in the white coat, the small Chinese girl with the shiny black hair, smelling of orange blossom, a little red bag in her hands, she curled into my chest, furtively and without a sound, so naturally, all but wrapped in my arms, how her eyes rose to meet mine as I inhaled the orange blossom, walking slowly through the grove, the sun warm against my face, the fruit heavy on the branches, the hot white sheen of light against her fine black hair, this beautiful Chinese girl in her long white coat, smelling of orange blossom in the cold winter morning, who stole my heart so quickly as the doors rattled open and she disappeared forever through the shoulders of the city. nth.