The anonymous, cover-less book in his hand is tattered, as battered as if it had been kicked across America and picked up some new languages along the way:
Reading now in Portuguese, Spanish, English and French:
Russian, Korean, and all the rest.
She is given just a glance and notices after the dance of the subway car, those shifts and dips, getting twisted for the turnings, the tattoo on his left wrist as it peeked from beneath his long sleeve briefly.
She feels the yearning to see it clearly, nearly, as if it were so intricate that she could spend her lifetime studying it and never see it wholly.
Intimately she recognizes the relic around his neck is holy, it’s eye unblinking, it watches over his fortune persistent’, guarding against slipped words which might bring him undue attention, and she prays it will not push her away.
See: she wants to worship at his altar. She wants to flitter, not falter.She wants for wishes to make her ambitious, she wants the wafers and all of the wine.