A young woman at a small round table in a coffee shop.
Around her neck a sheer scarf, loose, one fallen end draped across a stack of books then spilling over the edge of the table.
Her elbows resting, weightless, suggestion of leaning in.
Right hand lightly touching her neck, her gaze reaching across to her partner.
The way she holds her mouth and her eyelids and her eyelashes, entire.
The way the forefinger of her left hand winds a loose lock of auburn hair, signalling the morning eternal.
The extraordinary passion of ordinary light, falling through a window over her shoulders to the floor.
The secret conversation that everyone knows, in praise of every little thing.