A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. So I am already no longer the girl you knew at Morningside Park. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. You have the gift of words, but you haven't started to create yet.
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