She was beautiful there at the table next to mine,
in the coffee house where the music is loud, thumpy,
and we sip fairly grown brews as we pretend
not to notice one another while we are caught up,
all of us reading or writing important, personal things.
She leaned toward me in a moment that halved
the haze of the place with her tongue, asked:
"How do you spell commit?"
Yes, she was sitting alone.
"One 't' or two?" she demanded of me.
Of all people.
"I hate that word," she said.
"I believe you," I said.
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