A few months later he sawher again in a downtown rush-hour crowd. It happened in a moment and then itwas over. She turned her head and he saw in her face that she recognized himand she seemed to pause, waiting for him to do something, say something. But hedidn’t act. He didn’t have that skill of relating quickly to people, and thenit was too late, somehow, and they each went on and he wondered for a long timethat afternoon, and for days after that, who she was and what it would havebeen like if he had gone over and said something. The next summer he thought hesaw her at a bathing beach in the south part of the city. She was lying in thesand so that when he walked past her he saw her face upside down and he wassuddenly very excited. This time he wouldn’t just stand there. This time hewould act, and he worked up his courage and went back and stood in the sand ather feet and then saw that the right-side-up face wasn’t Lila. It was someoneelse. He remembered how sad that was. He didn’t have anybody in those days.

But that was so long ago — years and years ago. She would have changed. There was no chance that thiswas the same person. And he didn’t know her anyway. What difference did itmake? Why should he remember such an insignificant incident like that all theseyears?

These half-forgottenimages are strange, he thought, like dreams. This sleeping Lila whom he hadjust met tonight was someone else too. Or not someone else exactly, but someoneless specific, less individual. There is Lila, this single private person whoslept beside him now, who was born and now lived and tossed in her dreams andwill soon enough die and then there is someone else — call her Lila — who isimmortal, who inhabits Lila for a while and then moves on. The sleeping Lila hehad just met tonight. But the waking Lila, who never sleeps, had been watchinghim and he had been watching her for a long time.