The first thing he remembered about Helen was not her face. It was the color. A deep, strange reddish color in her hair, like rust on old iron after rain. Whenever he thought of her again, even after all those years, it was never her voice that came first, nor her body, nor any particular sentence. It was that color. And then a morning light, a cheap room, the sheet half-pulled aside, and himself lying awake staring at the ceiling, wondering whether she had changed, whether she had put on weight, whether she had grown old, whether she still laughed the way she did then or whether life had gotten into her mouth too and stolen the music from it.