I leave the sun and I am on the small brass thing pinned to her jacket, a little enamel pin shaped like a wing, and I am the shine that says she cares how she looks. They tell me eight minutes passed on the way here. I was not there for it. I was in the star and I was on her collar in the same breath.
She is sitting very straight in a chair that is not hers, in a room that is not hers, holding a folder she keeps almost opening. I light the sweat at her hairline. I light the water glass she has not touched. She is doing the thing the warm creatures do that I will never understand: she is waiting.
There is a clock on the wall and she looks at it, and looks at it again, as though looking could move it, and between the looks she does nothing, she just sits inside a gap I cannot picture, a stretched no-place they call almost, a soon.
I glint off the door handle she is watching. When it turns I am already the flash on someone's glasses coming in, already the brightness on a offered hand, already gone into the dark wet centers of two sets of eyes deciding things.
They say she will wait days to hear. Days. I have no room in me for one. I was made and I am her eye and it is the same instant, and I arrive, and arriving I am spent, delivered whole into her looking, before she has finished the sentence she rehearsed a hundred soons ago.