A Moment Between Strangers Across a CrowdedTable

Her scarf reeks of Asheville—
ablaze with colors, it bears the brand
of New Age shops,
the scent of tangerine-sweet charcoal.
Her companion stays bent over the page,
composing a mirror—
notices lines of calligraphy tracing the face
across from hers,
breathes in the incense pheromones.

They rise to leave.
One shuffles her notes,
letting their tide drag her down,
lulled by the whispering of foam
against the sand—
a distraction from the twin oceans
staring at her,
asking their own question.

A tongue, Lady's Slipper-pink
licking moisture and anxiety from her lips,
tangles itself around its own words
but the halting question finally comes—

"Do you need me to write my name down again?"

Two pairs of eyes collide, head-on—
in the time it takes the ambulance to arrive
and carry away the survivors
and the cops to clear away the wreckage
and get traffic moving again,
she finds she is able to answer:

"Nah.
I have a good memory for faces,"
she says,

And they smile at each other.