In the commotion of crowd, his mind was elsewhere, sitting off from the greater group as he smoked slowly on cigar.
Often quiet herself, she watched hm from the edges of her eyes, and when the crowd and focus moved away, she approached him in his thoughts.
“You don’t say much whenever you’re here,” she spoke as a beginning and too in acknowledgement of his being seen.
He broke from his thought and turned to her. He was writing in his mind, and with her words, his attention moved. He read her face, engagement of smile, full of her pupils in low night light, soft cleft of her chin soft shadow in accent-feature.
He would write that too when he found a way, but for then he smiled, leaving cigar low, it’s fire tempering gray from glow as he no longer fed its burn.
He smiled meek in recognition and reply, not knowing what to say and wanting still to speak.
“I get it,” she spoke. “It’s still nice whenever you’re around.”
“That means a lot,” he answered. “It really does, thank you.”
Her words were like a breath and draw that flared the hue of his face, snd he felt it redden then.
Reading, he believed he saw the same in hers.
He would write it one day, when he knew and found the words.