A like by Dorothee Lang

“Sea,” he says. Her eyes are closed, her toes curled into his. “She,” she answers. He doesn’t get it. She paints the words into the air: sea, see, sie. “They are alike,” she explains, “sea and see. And in German, it would be understood as sie, which means: she.” “Homonym,” he says. Now she doesn’t get it. “Different words, same pronunciation,” he explains. “Definition of homonym.” “Probably the very same word in German,” she figures, and searches for more of them. “I,” she says. “Eye,” he answers, “And in German: Ei. Egg.” Outside, a bus drives by, honks. “One more?” “Easy,” she answers. More. Is Moor in German: bog.” “Okay,” he says. “Done.” She beams. “That’s another one, actually.” “Done?” “Dann. Then.” “So then,” he says, his hand in her hair, and they both fall silent while their minds go hunting for more words that sound as alike as they feel that day.

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