The humidity sat
like a hand on her neck.
Even the silverware
seemed to wilt.
He stirred his coffee
slow,
like it might speak.
His shirt clung—
young,
distracted.
She watched
and said nothing.
She’d worn her hair like that
once,
before it had to fit
beneath something.
He glanced—once—
then turned,
like she’d asked
more than she should.
She felt the stir—
slow,
expectant—
and said nothing,
just as the coffee had.
She smiled,
just her mouth.
The kind you give
when touch
learns
to wait.
She stood.
Straightened the belt.
The vest pulled.
Keys tapped her thigh.
She walked past
the thing that didn’t happen.
Opened the door—
radio static,
leather seat,
bearing the weight
of being seen
before being understood.
