This grief-of losing something I'd never possessed-was strong enough to spur me into taking a risk. The night on which fantasy and reality collided I left the office at my usual time, six p.m., and set out on my thirty-minute walk home. It was a crisp October Friday, cold but sunny, the first of its kind that year, and the evening dusk was clear and starry. When I passed the site it looked more like a finished building than ever. There was glass in the window frames and even some lights, although swathes of crisscrossed tape indicated that it was yet to be completed. Half of the marble slab foyer was finished, but the other half was a mess of exposed brickwork and trailing wires. This would clearly be an impressive interior. For the first time, I was curious about the building for its own sake rather than for the fact that it was just the place where he worked.

I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peer in through a window. With a gloved hand, I rubbed away the grime to create a porthole in the glass. Through it I saw a strong, broad back bent over a workbench, a yellow hard hat, and a mug of coffee on the floor. I would know that back anywhere, and when he straightened up and I saw the soft tufts of his brown hair, I let out a low moan. He turned around and met my eyes. Wordlessly, he broke into a smile, displaying even white teeth. It was the first time I'd seen an expression on his face other than the set, serious look he gave me in the mornings. The creases around his mouth made him look a few years older than I'd guessed but also more beautiful, human, and vulnerable. Then he disappeared.