They Look Like Strangers



She leans her back against the fence, green hood pulled low over tightly-woven braids, and whispers, “The number?”

Giving no sign that he’s seen her, he replies, “Oh-Nine-Oh-Seven-Two,” and then walks past, as if on an afternoon stroll.

With a small, fleeting smile on her dark lips, she slips away, saying nothing more, trusting his number as she trusted the sun to rise in the morning.

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Jake Oates for the prompt photo!

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