They sat across the room from each other. Their hair had big, soft curls at the end, the raw beauty of hair taken down for the night. The room was warm with light but cool with chill making the women stay in their seats, nestled into their sweaters. Eyes wide and unfocussed, they listened. His voice was the only sound in the room. Each syllable rolled off his tongue with practiced storyteller inflection, the brown of his eyes buried in the book. The story was familiar but at the same time unknown in this other language. Every so often one of the women would confirm a word or phrase in French with him. The other women listened, following only the barest minimum for survival level comprehension. His warm voice turned the room into a living, breathing entity, full of light: a gift.
The story ended and she told her friend across the room that he used to read to her in French every night before bed.
As the other woman found her way under her blankets, she felt a new kind of love ease her gently into another world of stories.
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