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And that, perhaps, was the bravest thing of all.

They met on a rain-smeared Tuesday in a bookstore neither of them would remember the name of. Vick was looking for a book on knots; Viola was hiding from a phone call she didn’t want to take. Their hands touched reaching for the same worn copy of a poetry collection no one else had looked at in years.

They were an unlikely equation—haste and hesitance, volume and whisper. Vick taught Viola how to order coffee without apologizing. Viola taught Vick that a Sunday afternoon could be spent doing nothing at all, and that nothing could feel like everything. vick and viola

Here’s a short piece of text for “Vick and Viola”:

They fought about directions (literally and metaphorically), about the right way to load a dishwasher, about whether a tomato was a fruit or a mood. But at the end of every argument, Vick would reach for her hand, and Viola would lace her fingers through his without a word. And that, perhaps, was the bravest thing of all

“No,” Viola replied, smiling softly. “You read faster.”

“You first,” Vick said.

And somehow, improbably, that was the beginning.