December:

Like most of them -- all of them -- she is a stranger to me.

A pale cream sweater, thickly knitted, peeked from under a close-fitting coat of orange and brown tweed. Corduroy trousers; mossy grey sneakers of that ubiquitous brand no-name. A silver ring on a finger of either hand; mittens, home-knotted, of some indistinguishable shade of brown-dull.  

She has a light, quietly pretty face -- glowing, flawless, framed by soft, chestnut curls. Behind her silver square glasses is a dreamy, guileless look.

I fumble my way into a seat, graceless as always; when I look up, breathless, out of nowhere, she smiles at me. It is gentle, warm, and deliberate. At once I feel absolved ... for being gauche, clumsy, awkward, plain, stupid, everything.

I am smitten.

We both disembark at Osgoode -- she pulls on a fleece-lined hunter's cap, tugging it by its enormous, ridiculous earflaps with both hands -- but I lose her at the top of the stairs.