The next time Wendy saw him, it was two weeks later. Same coffee shop, same snow. He was in the corner this time, notebook open, scribbling something with intense focus, doesn't say anything. Almost.
"still reading Keats?" she asked, standing just out of view.
William looked up, a little startled, but when he saw her, his eyes softened. "Today it's Rilke," he replied. "He replied. " He's a little more honest".
Wendy tucked her damp hair behind her ear and hook a step closer. "You write?"
He nodded, hesitant. " just little things. Nothing worth reading."
"I doubt that ," she said, and meant it. They didnt exchange numbers. They didn't ask for each others names. But Wendy found herself wandering onto that coffee shop often, always checking the poetry section first.