There is a language. I may once have been fluent. No more. All the signs are hieroglyphic. The gestures ambiguous. Today, I look at you and wonder.

What is that smile, that look?

Though I find myself wishing them hopeful, I remind myself that they are likely habit. A friendly disposition. An openness. Perhaps no more than sunny civility.

Yet still my mood soars, and I imagine the next move. Is this it? Cautious language. Toe in the water.

Now, when I see you next, how will I read the room?