Here's my example. PLEASE CRITIQUE: Beginnings

The stranger came to her as she lay among the cascading rhododendron. The moon was out, though there was no reason for anyone to have found her.Feli was careful not to stumble along the terrain, lessons learned from various surgeries. Feli found being a widow impossible, and became a bit of a daredevil, her friends liked to say. Nepal being the last in a long line of ways to grieve. But among the photos and the wayfarer’s ephemera Feli felt less devil than dare. “Felicia, you keep pushing soon there’ll only be wall left.”

“Don’t you worry none about me, Doc”, Feli thought as she stripped off her Northface jacket; the April chill noticed her, moved her way. She thought she could see Langtang in the distance, but the dark played her for a fool. Behind her she could hear the sounds of people milling and stumbling over benches, tripping over their own excitement as if this were a high school dance, everyone at the pinnacle of joy without having the words to describe it. She pressed on beyond the lamps, ignoring her companions. Tentacles of light reached for her, missed.

She breathed in orchid flush. At first, Feli didn’t see him nearing her. All she saw was the night becoming day. Feli waited but wasn’t surprised.

A crowd gathered between the stillness of the night and her body. Minutes struggled, worked against themselves. The chill picked up inside the sound of the stranger’s breath. Nobody knew where he’d come from. The base camp? The highland? Did Ganesh himself send him, her courier, her orange-scented savior? There was no time to thank him. No time to recall his face, being a shadow against Feli’s flat body. He disappeared into the gloaming. They say he barely touched her lips. He touched her in whispers, her body an ear that heard only him. Before stepping away, he slipped a shred of his yellow collar into her fist, where it sang like a radiator’s kiss.
But everyone know how much people like to embellish -

This year, her closet held a tuxedo shirt with a starch shine that burned her skin like hot Crisco. Between each buttonhole a jasmine flower perched as if freshly plucked. Last year nestled between her pantsuits, a serape,pre-Columbian. A dead warbler fell from its sleeves. Before that, it had been a loin cloth, with frayed edges. Scent of earth and laughter. The first time, after returning to her house in the city, he left her a pair of linen pants. When her hand fell into the pocket, this time overtaken by orange blossom and pine ash. She was no longer tethered. There was never the intention to call the police.