Sounds

He glowers over his cheap ASDA brunch mulling about how strange it was he never said the things he wanted to, nor asked the questions that bugged him, but would rather quietly listen to her talk.
He would have told her that he thought it was wrong that anyone could tell her to shut up for a while and listen, or else they wouldn't get a word in edgewise. Part of her magic was her thoughts, and her (pressure of?) speech. And her eyes. He would never have wanted to stem that flow of raw, unbridled humour for anything.
He would have confessed to being a dog person too in response to her rant that he had to choose! He thought dogs and cats were cute, sure. But she never asked, so he never said that dogs are beautiful - they've got eyes that laugh, or cry. They... hover expectantly, they gambol. They're Funny. They win, paws down.
He would tell her about the countless numbers of times he thought, "hey, yeah, I so agree. I've always thought that, too!" but for some reason he always kept his peace. He would tell her what he was thinking so that she could have a taste of her own medicine, she could be the one thinking Oh. That's exactly what I would have said. But for some reason, he was always the one who asked her what she thought.
He would have asked her why she pronounced her name the way she did?
He would tell her that she was right, these things Do always seem important when they happen, but in retrospect they weren't. Except perhaps, for him, just once in a lifetime.
He would tell her how he walked down the road in blustery wintertime, arms akimbo feeling - happy. Despite the dark, cynical, violent grey city around him. Despite being the proverbial fish out of water.
He would have told her he really did miss her in the end, but, well. that would have been mushy. and mush is bad.
He would have told her that he never really expected anything from her. He could never have dared expect. He didn't play the ball when it was in his court, because he didn't want to live a pipe-dream, which he ended up doing anyhow.
He would reassure her that he never saw it as her fault, he led himself on. And he would never have held her to task or tried to blame her.
He did what he had to, so that he would remember her well.
And he does. And that he never did meet anyone even remotely like her, but with slightly under three quarters of his natural lifetime remaining (barring unexpected scientific augmentation) who knows, he might do someday.
And most of all, he would tell her :
that he thinks it's really pathetic that she only ever had a pet turtle that got flushed down the toilet by her brother, and that he was so glad someone else existed who made his own childhood look normal by comparison.

Sights

They pass along a gentle incline and turn the corner towards the car-park. There's a white tower-of-sorts here, contrasting garishly with the green metalwork that litters the establishment, and comprise two of the three mismatched colours that contribute to its identity.
He remembers : windswept hair. A slight sobriety on her face, shoulders held, as always, slightly hunched. Eyes bright and twinkling. She's wearing a not-particularly-flattering T-shirt and shorts, and carrying a rather oddly decorated inverted mop. Somewhere, the knights of the round table are rolling in their graves. She looks slightly sad, as they speak briefly, and in his own sadness, he wonders why. silently.

She walks past him on the green-railed stairs, he, heading down, and she, up. They pause for a while and he makes some lame comment about the large, carved staff that she's incongurously carrying. It's apparently a gift. An older, slightly more Anglicised Him laughs in retrospect, and wishes he could have made a wittier joke about "giving you stick, huh". They pass on.

He stops by the rails in the cafeteria. Surely they were taller, once. He distinctly remembers her leaning back against them, but cannot reconcile their lack of height with his memory. She was as tall as, if not slightly taller than himself. He doesn't even attempt to lean against the rails, he'd just fall over backwards. He remembers her eyes, laughing, and almost mocking him as he drifts slowly and dreamily towards her, hand on his sword, all eyes in the canteen upon - her, probably, rather than him.

He steps outside onto the shop floor, back into the mundane everyday battles of life and death that now occupy his waking life, and eclipse the fading memories that still surface from time to time. He doesn't - know - what to feel, anymore.

So he doesn't.