He thinks he sees her again and he’s mesmerized by her perfection.
He watches her and remembers his perfect past; remembers what it was like for him all those many years ago when, returning home, he’d find the perfect woman there, smiling, standing beside the fireplace, close to the fire, waiting. He can’t always recall her name, but he remembers the fire and her smile; the perfectly soft glow, the welcoming warmth.
These are the benedictions of age, he thinks. Even when the fire burns low, there is memory and imagination; even in an empty room I am never alone.