I am on my balcony, aimlessly carving into driftwood to pass the time when something catches my eye. In the building across the way, on a balcony just like mine, I see a man. His hair looks slightly damp. He is so engrossed in the book he is reading, he doesn’t notice me staring. As he turns the page, I can feel the papery texture between my thumb and forefinger—the friction releasing the familiar yet indescribable fragrance of weathered pages. I know this man but I can’t quite place him. A woman, barefoot, walks up from behind him. When the wind caresses her long hair, the warm, sweet scent of amber fills the air. She hands him a mug and gently kisses the top of his head. When he takes a sip, my own lips taste the saffron and mint.

Memories flash before me like movie scenes. I recall where I met him. Five years ago, selling poems composed on a typewriter on the street corner. I remember our first kiss on a dark lit dance floor. Running through the rainy streets of Bali. The sandalwood box he held out to me while on one knee. And suddenly, there is the back of his head on my balcony. I look down at my bare feet. In my hands is the image of his face, carved into driftwood.