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.

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