ABSTRACT
There were two slim volumes of poetry by Timothy Stilling in stock. The back covers were filled with praise but no picture, alas. Gita turned a few pages and soon she felt that she was visiting an old, dear friend. The bookstore bustle disappeared. He was holding up a mirror for her to see herself. He understood the nuances of what she had never been able to express. He spoke about places inside her she would like to discover. She felt herself hugging, hugged by his words, felt herself expanding to incorporate his mind. As soon as he started introducing his poems, her opinions began to shift. His voice was filled with golden light. His eyes shimmered, blue, wise. His hands were long-fingered and eloquent when he spread them out to make a point. Even the teeth, set so tight and crooked in his mouth, were charming.
