You were standing on the roof of the lighting factory late in December. It was dusk or thereabouts and you were talking to that man from work (let’s call him Steven), who later you said you hardly knew. You were holding a glass of champagne punch and in your other hand a purple and yellow paper crown folded into a tight square. You were looking at your watch. Steven was looking at the sky. Later you said that the cloud cover was thick; you said that it was still pretty light and that there wasn’t much to see. Steven was looking, though, you said, looking as though he saw something. And then Steven turned to you and asked you a question. Quite out of the blue, he asked if you’d tell him your age. You looked around then for the others but Steven asked you again and when he asked you again you told him exactly, always your way. He said, aha, I see then, the warning here is for you. He said Saturn is returning and there will be many changes. Steven said, you must hurry and get ready for them. 

Later when you were telling me about Steven you said that his voice had alarmed you, his voice and his eyes too, you said. It was later that night when I was only partly listening, just listening to your alarm. You said that you had looked up for whatever it was that Steven saw and yet looking up you had seen nothing. Where is Saturn, can I see it, where’s Saturn now, you’d said. Steven had said, maybe you can see it, but he was only looking closely into your eyes.