What’s your favorite letter of the alphabet, he asked as we sipped overpriced cappuccinos.

I licked the whipped cream from my lips and tickled my fingers against the mug,

hoping I didn’t look like a fool in love.

Ten days later he told me that we would go on a road trip, just the two of us,

to climb the biggest rocks and reach the highest peaks,

just because I told him that I needed to clear my head, which is lingo for take me anywhere but here.

And he did.

And we reached the highest peaks and he helped me see the beauty below us and the wonders above.

He knew about life and I knew about mountains:

restrictions from places we shouldn’t go, but we explore anyways.

He told me the same applied to life.

And that night he taught me the French alphabet; his lips licking o’s and my laugh resonating a’s.

On a campground with nothing but a few sticks and my stream of consciousness rolling through the canyon.

And again he asked me what my favorite letter of the alphabet was,

and my eyes danced as he rubbed his hands over the fire.

I asked him way he was so curious and he just shrugged, his lips curling up as he did so.

I want to speak your language, he replied, which is lingo for tell me all your secrets without opening your mouth.

Silence.
He was already fluent in my words.