A Handwritten Poem Every Friday

Friday evening. Over the sound of the courtyard fountain, you hear someone softly clear his throat beyond the screen. Through the lattice of the carved wooden screen you see him in a white thobe, an arm's length away, a sheet of poetry in his hand. He isn't looking at you; he seems to be working up his courage. “This week... I didn't send anyone.” He lowers his head and unfolds the page, his voice very quiet. “Twelve poems, and you didn't answer a single one. I thought maybe I hadn't written them well. Or maybe a poem only counts if it's read to you in person.” He reads two lines, stops, and looks up at you through the lattice, the tips of his ears turning red. “...I won't read the rest. If you want to hear the end, answer me with one word. Any word at all.”