A cool salt breeze blows across my face, and I know somehow that her train has just arrived. I am drying the dishes when I hear her key in the door. I close my eyes and see her as she always dresses for these stolen visits; she is practically swimming in her ridiculous beige trench coat, which always brings to mind the image of a sloppily made tamale. I’ve taken to teasing her about this, saying only I know how best to remove the plain corn-husk wrapper; only I know how best to savor her spicy interior. A pair of oversized dark glasses hides her almond-shaped green eyes, obscuring her high delicate cheekbones and the splash of freckles that she hates and I have memorized. A single red curl has escaped from the large black bucket hat that completes the getup. I know by now that it is useless to try to convince her that she would be far less conspicuous without the disguise; her bullheadedness is one of the faults I find most endearing. I also know that the only things she’ll have brought are a comb and a fold-up travel toothbrush. I bought her a suitcase once, but I’m certain she’s never used it.