The Woman Who Arrived Early for Something Unnamed

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She wore yellow the way other people wear opinions: carefully, as if it might be taken away for misuse. Her hair was arranged with the seriousness of a government meeting, pinned with small bright shapes that looked festive but were clearly there to keep order.

I met her in a place that sold nothing useful. The shelves were full of items that had once been important to someone else. A cracked mirror, a clock that refused to agree with itself, a hat clearly intended for a different century. She stood very still, as if movement were taxable.

“You’re early,” she said.

“For what?”

She considered this. Her face did not change, but something behind it adjusted its position, like furniture being moved upstairs.

“Exactly,” she said.

We walked without coordination. At one point she stopped and pointed at the sky, which was behaving badly. I nodded, although it hadn’t done anything worth agreeing with. This seemed to please her.

She spoke in short announcements, the way conductors speak to trains that are already late. I answered in longer sentences that went nowhere and returned with nothing to declare. This created a balance.

At a café we did not enter, she told me she had once been assigned a role but forgot to perform it. No one noticed. The role was eventually promoted.

A man passed us carrying something unnecessary but heavy. She watched him with professional interest.

“That’s how it works,” she said. “You carry it long enough and people assume it belongs to you.”

Before leaving, she adjusted one pin in her hair. The gesture was precise, final, and possibly ceremonial. Then she stepped away, leaving behind a sense that something had been concluded improperly.

I stood there for a while, waiting for an explanation to arrive late and apologize. It didn’t. That was its best quality.