She loved the wind.

It reminded her of him.

Yes, on the windy days, she'd just stand outside, transfixed.

The wind would weave through strands of her ginger hair and toss it about in all directions.

Her hair used to be perfect. Every morning, before she went to work, she'd put at least an hour into brushing it. She doubted he paid such attention to his.

It was a sandy color, unable to decide between blond and brown. And it was always messy.

Then she would turn so that the wind would hit her face, full force, letting it stain her cheeks. She could feel her skin, thicker and rougher than it had normally been. Like his.

And her lips. The wind would chap her lips.

In all the times she'd kissed him, his lips had never felt smooth. She could feel the lines down each of them, deep and callused.

On more stormy occasions, the wind would chill her, and she'd shiver once or twice, just for effect. She would shut her eyes very tightly, and run her index fingers over the wrinkles that formed beside them.

His eyes were just like that, permanently creased at the sides.

Then she'd open them, and the wind would dry them out. Her eyes would water then. Either that or she'd be crying, she never wanted to decide between the two.

But she'd never seen him crying…