Stare

A strangely polite Michael encounters an equally strangely quiet poet on slam night. Poetry isn't really his thing, but perhaps J is.
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“Oh, well...” she was making pointless conversation, pointless because there wasn’t anything in the world more engaging than her, the way her lips moved when she talked, her hands when she was trying to find the right things to say, the right words. Words. She was so good with them. He could only wish that he would be sometimes. The words he’d put together would frighten her, scare her away. He was listening, but his mind was somewhere else.

And that is how Michael found himself snapped back to where he was; sitting across from J on the couch with the textbook in his hands, his mouth putting together words like revolution and enlightenment and humanism. The woman on the front was frustrating him by now. He glared at her. “Why can’t I have a way with words?”

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