Reading
By Michael F. Smith

In the corner of L'Autre Cafe, a busy street outside, fading sunshine of a strangely warm February through the windows, soft on her wrinkled eyes. She sits without company, without presentation, with a book and a coffee and a dedicated stare. The traffic from the one way street flows from her left to her right, in the direction of Luxembourg Gardens, small cars with small doors, like turtle shells on wheels. Her head down as a brother and sister scamper past her table and then her head up with the crash and breaking glass and the father shaking his finger and apologizing to the waitress. And then her eyes back down to the letter disguised behind the cover of the book and the news of his change of heart that give him new characteristics, give her new words to describe him, compound adjectives and words that bite, words she hadn't considered before as she reads the generic explanations. She looks up and again outside and two women walk by with more children, soccer balls and blankets tucked under arms. Then a bump and the noise of a sliding chair on the hardwood floor and the smiling man with the part in his hair sits down, believing that asking what sheâs reading is a safe way to start.