I arrived at her door in a loud city. It was her parents' house and they were gone, at work. We were both in our twenties. She came to the door wrapped in a towel. A thick red terrycloth towel knotted over her breasts. Her legs and neck and face still moist from the shower. Her hair wet, slicked back. I can't remember for sure what we did. I think we made love. But the moment when she opened the door, the silent house beyond her, one hand holding a red towel at her breasts, invitation in her eyes, wet hair and moist skin . . . . That moment is as alive as this one, when the moist night air blows over the river while a young woman looks out into the night.