Ira of memory

I must remember Ira, like I recognise my own face in the album of party pictures. Ira hidden by sunlight, Ira with raindrops on her fingers in the Russian summer rain, Ira as a set of curving contours in the dark, where a smile and a waist has identical shapes. Ira whispering stories (Soviet rock stories) through a half/full glass of wine and wine-stained lips in some conversation from our past together. Ira's head diving into her bag, eyes sharpening, looking for something (a postcard?). Ira and Andrew kissing each other for the first time (I assume after the second postcard they were lovers). Ira's hands around Andrew's neck, stroking and grabbing his neck-hairs. Ira in the forests, waiting for Andrew and his maps, dressed in baggy, wind-proof clothes and gumboots, scratching her cheek gently, tilting her head slightly; the delicate moves of a soft body beneath the weathery fabrics (although I suppose Andrew must have been blind to it. Her only observer must have been Philip. Philip the observer).