It only took a smile.

He likes his coffee black,
Or maybe he just got used to it that way.
She doesn’t really drink coffee;
It’s a tea kind of day, anyway,
His car is snowed in,
And he orders his third tall paper cup of Earl Grey.

They’ve seen each other around the place.
He knows she usually sits at the bar
With a notebook and pen.
She knows he usually sits in the back, by the window,
Reading something,
Always something.
She never got close enough to read the title.

She peers up from her frantic scribbles,
The molten figures never sit still, anyway.
At the same moment,
He dog-ears his page,
Tucks the book underneath his arm,
Sips his Earl Grey.
Their eyes meet.

It only took a smile.

Turning back to the hieroglyphs, the cave markings,
Her own language unreadable to her,
She hopes, one day,
She will find a translator.
She hears the creak of a stool turning,
That she can understand.

He asks, “What’s your name?”

She looks at the notebook.
She has no translator.
“Maybe we’re meant to forget these things.”

He smiles, but she does not see.
“I remember,” he says.


“…are your translator.”