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They had first laid eyes on each other at the train station. Track 14. She had worn a close cut blue silk dress. He would never forget the dress. Nor her bare shoulders which he had wanted to touch before they had even spoken. She had looked at him, her dark eyes not letting him go. He had watched her board the train, as she slowly climbed the steps. He had stood still, unable to move.
“Not going north?” she asked, as she turned around.
Her lips, full and inviting had broken into a smile. It was at that moment, that all his plans had changed. He picked up his back pack and got on board.
Paris, two years later
Barcelona seemed like forever ago. They lived together now, but the bad days outnumbered the good. They argued and fought over all, or nothing. He rarely thought about her Barcelona dress.
”I don’t know where it is,” she once told him.
“I don’t know where you are either,” he thought, but didn’t say.
He spent a lot of nights without her. It seemed like it did not matter if they drifted apart. 24 months together now, but neither one was counting.
It was a Friday night, when his life changed again. He was home late from work, tired, glad to be taking off his suit and tie. He slipped on a black T-shirt, one he had not worn for a while.
“You know, you wore that when we first met,” she said, leaning against the bedroom wall. He looked up and saw her wearing blue.
“The dress,” he said, “I thought you couldn’t find it.”
“I looked for it all day,” she said, her dark eyes not letting him go.
He did not ask her why she had wanted to find it, and she did not ask him why he remembered the dress. They did not need to; they both knew why.