When they walked up Telegraph Avenue on their first or second date, a bird smeared white on the right side of her hair. He pointed it out, she reached up her hand, he intervened and unaffectedly removed it with his own fingers. A sign of good luck, her mother said later, though neither had heard that before.

When they walked through Rice Park forty years later and thirty-three years since last seeing each other, leaves tangled brown on the right side of her hair. He pointed it out, she couldn’t feel them, he hesitated then scrupulously removed them with his own fingers. A mirror, he said. As though such moments could be scripted.