Only fitting, it happens on a Tuesday evening
in a crowded library
she sits and waits and threads her fingers
through words and lines, spaces and tears
taped together hastily,
rushing to reach the end.
Overdue novels
placed lovingly beneath textbooks from her parents’ time
radiate heat to her fingertips,
a scorching reminder
that all is temporary
and pages are pages
and ink is ink
no matter what settles into print.
She listens for thought
and hums to herself,
a song her sister liked
when she was home
and she was well
and supper was still at the table.
Her eyes flash
when he approaches;
a stranger not unlike herself,
hoping and stretching
towards words in their native tongue
that they do not yet understand.
This particular Tuesday
wrought emptiness and completion
and split bills and stained receipts
and lies
and optimism.
She takes his number willingly
and writes it on her wrist
and in her mind
and turns the digits over
and commits his eyebrows to memory
and it is only fitting.