The Hackers

The night I taught you how to be a hacker, we sit on your couch, our laptops aglow on the coffee table.  

This is the first time I see your face so close.

Gorgeous.  

Weeks later I send cryptic numbers.

5347421851028119

-14872153710977112

What’s the answer to this mystery?  

You love the unknown.  You probe for clues.

And then you send the message:

These must be coordinates!

Typing them into Maps drops you into street-view.

A brick wall.

Rotate the camera — an empty parking lot, then a building. The sign above it is old. It reads:

GORGEOUS

Months later we sit on a foreign couch.

We are close enough to hold hands, but farther apart than stars.

The therapist asks me what initially drew me to you.

“Look at her,” I say. “Gorgeous.”

After the session you walk to your car.

I watch your tail lights shrink and I wonder —

Do stars ever collide?