She heard him before she saw him. The sound of those wonderful snakeskin boots on the gravel.
She didn't dare hope it would actually be him and refused to turn around, in order to keep the illusion going just a bit longer. It couldn't be him, it was impossible; he was just a figment of her imagination. But, oh, what a lovely figment he had been.
The sound grew nearer and nearer and she could've sworn she smelled a hint of Brut.
'No, Alex, this is silly! He doesn't exist! And if he did, he wouldn't be here, in 2013. Get a grip!'
The steps stopped behind her and she closed her eyes, ready for yet another disappointment, when a deep voice with a Manchester accent whispered in her ear:
"Hello, Bols."