A young woman not yet twenty very pretty wearing a black cape and a black gaucho hat. The circular wooden bead that joins and adjusts the hat's long leather straps rests between her breasts slightly to the right of the line of buttons on her white shirt with its starched, button-down collar. The shirt is a tight fit. It shows off her breasts, as does the cape which is draped over her shoulders and falls open to create a dramatic frame for the swell of her breasts under that crisp white shirt tucked neatly into tight blue jeans cinched by a leather belt with a circular brass buckle aligned perfectly in the center of an athletic body. This is a young woman who pays careful attention to her dress. Her name is Cecily. I called her C. I don't remember where we were when I took this picture. She's standing on the wrong side of a railing, facing the camera. She appears to be standing some small height above snowy fields that are divided by chain link fences in the distance behind her. To her right there's a canal or a drainage ditch. To her left, a long low building. I have no idea where we were or why she climbed over the railing. But I remember C. She had big eyes and a sparkling mind, witty and adventurous. She liked to toy with me. I think she knew she was smarter and better read but wasn't entirely sure since those days I always came on like Ezra Pound, full of myself, full of pronouncements and assertions about art, delivered with enough authority to convince all the twenty-year olds who were our friends, our fellow freaks, which was a complimentary term then. We were young and C was wild with her cape and gaucho hat. She was beautiful and sexy. We were together a few weeks, and after that it was over between Jessie and me.