I call her “Juliet.” I don’t remember her name, and it is possible that I never knew it. Her image came to me at six o’clock every evening for years. I went to the upper floor of my house, entered any room, and turned off the light. I got to my knees and looked through the blinds out of a window, any window in any direction. I always saw her in the opposite window, preparing for her evening date. Juliet was seventeen and beautiful. She had many boyfriends and went out with one of them every night. If I waited in front of my house, I saw the boys drive up and take her with them. Whenever I met her on the street, she chatted with me and smiled.