He does it well. Flicks his discomfort round the inside of his mouth like an oral hygeine rinse and then laughs with his eyes as his twitch of larynx tipples me off balance.
Interupts a pattern of what is expected.
I stare at his face. A temporary stun gun stare. He improvises a tune in his cupped hands over his face. It is very effective. I feel captivated at the sounds he is creating in his throat. Impressed. Yes, I am impressed.
She, however, is not.
She isn’t physically here and yet she is, because she knows that all these little quirky details are what she fell in love with and she knows, when his eyes are locked with mine and I feel stunned and disarmed. She too knows, and she knows, because she has that imprint from him too in her DNA.
And we rest on the petal of the rose.