Two strangers sit across a small fire that hums but does not warm, and they show each other their teeth. Not to bite. This is the friendly showing of teeth. I do not fully trust it.
They do not hunt together. They do not fight a beast together. They sit still and make sounds, back and forth, testing. He speaks of his cave. She speaks of the animals she has tamed, small ones, kept for no meat. Each is deciding: is this one strong? Will this one share the kill? Will this one guard the young when the cold comes?
They cover their true smell. I sniff it under the false flower-smell they wear like war paint. Fear. Both of them. Two hunters afraid of one small unarmed person.
Fire arrives, not fire, food on flat stone, and now I see truth. Watch how they eat. Fast, or careful? Do they offer the best piece across the fire, or keep it? The tongue lies. The hands do not. She reaches for the same food he reaches for and their hands stop, close, not touching. Both go still. Even the breath stops.
I know this stillness. It is the stillness of two animals at the edge of the same watering hole, before one drinks and one runs.
She laughs. He shows all his teeth now.
Good. The tribe grows one more.