They met in line at the grocery store, each eyeing what the other placed on the conveyor belt.

One had fruits and vegetables, cheese--the other: frozen entrees and canned goods.

-- I’m embarrassed.

-- Don’t be. A resolution I’ll no doubt soon break.

They meet again outside, on the corner. A smile; some hesitation; an approach.

-- You thinking what I’m…

A nod. Two blushing smiles.

Their fingers connect when they exchange numbers. It’s early, but it’s this touch that anchors them.

One lunch, one movie, two dinners.

They’re in bed, maybe a little drunk.

She’s beautiful. He’s happy to fall. He can’t be nonchalant with her in the room, naked.

He’s funny. He seduces her with her own laughter, empowers her with his gaze.

They both fear the other’s too good for them. They both feel like temporary guests. Neither says it aloud. They worry when alone. Where is he? What does she see in me? I’m not in control.

They ride the elevator together in silence. For him, the car is going too fast--for her, too slow. He needs time to sort the words before releasing them; she hovers, overwhelmed--terrified by what she’s certain he will say. Both question: Can I handle it? The other passengers feel the love between them, and in quiet, jealous conspiracy, try to will them deaf and mute.