I introduced Bess. She gave her best blushing, shy smile, the one that can melt a guy to a puddle.

“Is Diana your date to the party?” Bess asked Zeke. Her voice fizzed with mischief. Bess isn’t completely boy-crazy, but she never passes up a chance to flirt. As much as I hate to admit it, I actually felt a little sorry for Sven.

“We’re going as friends,” Zeke replied. “I’m here to support her in this difficult time.”

Bess laid a hand on his arm. “You’re too sweet. Did I hear you tell Nancy you’re a poet? Would you write me a poem?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. Behind Zeke, I thought I heard Diana let out a derisive snort. But when I looked at her, she had her head bowed over the tablet, apparently absorbed in her drawing.

Zeke’s brown eyes twinkled. “I will, but only if you promise never to read it.”

Bess nodded. “I promise,” she said solemnly, one hand over her heart.

Zeke took out his little black notebook and flipped to a blank page. I saw the book was overflowing with cramped, elegant script, some crossed through with thick slashes of black ink. What was he writing in there? I realized I’d never really thought about how poems were created. Did they come to Zeke fully formed, or did he write them over and over until he got the words right?

“Aren’t you going to ask Bess what kind of poem she’d like?” I asked.

“A poem shouldn’t be told what it is before it exists. Right now, her presence is all I need.”

“Yes, my presence is that powerful. Thank you, Zeke,” said Bess.

“Oh, brother,” I said.

Zeke gazed into Bess’s eyes for a long moment. I half expected him to kneel down and ask for permission to kiss her hand, like a medieval bard saluting his queen. Bess would make an excellent queen. She tilted her head, watching Zeke watch her.

In the absence of conversation, I heard the machinery beeping and grinding next door in the auto shop. A crisp spring breeze blew through my curls.

Zeke broke their gaze first. He took out a ballpoint pen, licked the tip, and began to write. Bess and I watched him for several minutes. He never paused, never crossed out, until he had covered an entire page top to bottom. I tried making out the words, but his oddly formal cursive was illegible to me. When he was finished, he tore the page from its binding, then crumpled it into a ball.

“Open your mouth, please,” he said to Bess. I cocked an eyebrow.

Bess, delighted by the attention, stuck out her little pink tongue, as though to let Zeke check her tonsils. He nodded in satisfaction and placed the paper pill gently on her tongue.

“All right, swallow!”

Bess did as he asked without argument.

“What on earth did that have to do with poetry?” I said.

“Your stomach has eyes,” Zeke said. “Listen, and your stomach will read what I wrote for you.”