And I don’t tell him.
He can see that I’m wearing a name tag 
which suggests that I might be someone—might even 
hold some authority over the grown up who just yelled at him, 
Or maybe not.
I am sitting by myself, in the Commons 
composing an email. One of those, where I keep 
changing my mind on if it should be “reply” or “reply all.”
I look up when I hear the voices, one raised.
And that’s when I see him, and he see me.
The expression on his face asks, Do you see this guy?
in reference to the grown-up, the one with the raised voice.
I am confident that my facial expression replies—just to him—
I do see. He seems really frustrated. Next, my facial expression asks,
Did you play a role in that frustration? and follows up with a,
Don’t get me wrong. I still see your humanity, guilty or not.
I know that he understands 
everything I am saying without saying anything.
I know this because he wears a smirk that is humble, and playful, 
and friendly, and responsible, all at the same time 
(if it’s possible for a smirk to do all of those things), 
as he walks to the office with the grown-up, 
the one with the raised voice.