The soldier was standing on the subway platform. I knew he was a soldier because he wore a uniform. It was green, slightly loose-fitting. He stood with his thick legs wide apart and his hands clasped behind his back. His head was lowered, abashed, as if somebody had just finished telling him off.

The doors closed, cutting him off from me, and the train moved forward.

Three days later I saw him again. I was at a bar, trying to avoid dancing. I’ve always hated dancing. When I showed an early boyfriend pictures from my sister’s wedding, he told me that I looked like a plank of wood. At bars, I liked to stand outside, smoking one cigarette after another until my mouth hurt. In the morning, the skin of my gums would be shredded, and everything would taste like blood.

The soldier was ordering a drink. He had blond hair, longer than you would expect. He wore a digital wristwatch, a silver slash against his tanned forearm. I was too far away to see the time it displayed.

There was a mirror behind the bar. People were all around me, pushing up against me, trying to order drinks. When I looked in the mirror, they formed a tapestry. I could smell their sweat, perfume, cologne, makeup, the wax in their hair, the moisturizer on their skin, the detergent that they used on their clothes. When I looked at the soldier I imagined that he smelled like nothing. He had a solid, almost round face, and broad shoulders. Wearing jeans and a button-down, he looked older than he had in uniform. I guessed that he was about twenty-seven. By the time he managed to order a drink, I had decided to talk to him.