It is strange, that smile. There is something in it that sparks a warmth in him, almost a relief. "It is," he allows, with a little smile of his own, "as good a reason as any. I was trying not to ask."

Because it is strange, is it not, to be so fascinated by a man sitting alone in a coffee shop? It is strange to miss him when he is gone for a brief time, and strange to strike up such conversation with him, when he is not even entirely sure that he has ever given her his name. It is not unpleasant, not in the slightest, but it is strange; and this is the closest she has ever come to giving an explanation.

An explanation, he cannot help but notice, which is remarkably close to his own experience. He, too, remembers his mother reading night and day; it is one of the few things he does remember of her with any great clarity. He, too, finds in that a sacred wonder. Perhaps that is why, after a moment, he clears his throat and pushes the moleskine notebook across the table towards her. It is not something he makes a habit of, to share his poetry so freely with a stranger; but under the circumstances, it begins to feel churlish not to.

"If you would care to sate your curiosity." His smile lingers longer, this time; it is soft, if not entirely happy. "Only do not be disappointed, and remember: I did tell you it is unpolished."