I met you on the underground station. You were waiting for the train, just as everyone else there. It was crowded, the station; and yet my eyes could not help finding you amidst the sea of faces. There was something uncanny about you. Maybe it was the eighties' feel. I think it was your hair. It made me think of those unlikely movie stars of the eighties' movies. It was light brown, its thick curls dropping over your shoulders. Your shoulders, as your body, were pale and thin; your whole figure was so light that one would think oneself to be able to snap it between one's fingers as if it was a leafless autumn twig. It had a grace of its own though, and a power: hidden under your skin, revealing itself only in your arms and legs, tense as a stringbow, full of some unbound energy, released in every step you took - determined, knowing. But of you, what stroke me more intensely was your eyes. Wide and round, their gray irises permanentely startled, your eyes seemed restless, almost afraid, definitely untamed. Their gray was beautiful, and yet it was different - it wasn't that gray that every so-called writer describes as the gray of a sea under a storm. The was nothing of the sea in your eyes; their gray was a metallic one, and yet they were oddly alive. The was turmoil there, yes, but an earthly one, a wild one. Of all the girls I've met in the last year or so, I guess you were the most likely to be forgotten by anyone. And yet, if I remember all of them, none of them possessed a beauty as unique as yours.