He listened to the story, rapt. His eyes
were wide. I don’t know where his hands
were, something that I’ve only now realized.
But when the story ended, he began
to clap and clap. His hands had woken up,
come out of hiding, played. He opened them
up wide, staring. He did not smile. He was
unsure of what he felt, like in a dream
or something. Maybe. I don’t really know,
of course. I put myself in his place, watched me
pack up the books, stand, make for the door.
But now I’m me again, and he is he,
just like he always was. And just like I
was, always. I never saw his mind.