He stared at me, looked up to me, rather. His hair fine, and wispy, curved over his flat forehead, grazing the tops of his obedient eyebrows. His nose was a bit on the large size, but not so when compared with his fellow Frenchmen. His lips were thin, yes, but brimming with adventurous stories and melancholy history. His chin was the most defined feature, hosting a memorable cleft that might seem to disappear when he smiled. His eye were the most telling of all. Dark and shrouded in mystery. Pain had caused a slight exhaustion and loss contributed to the droopiness, but the rest of his face- cheeks, chin and all- provided relief to the misery felt through eye contact.
He no sooner looked at me, then I had to look away. Such glances, though brief, caused a vulnerability on my part that I did not ask for nor desire. Secrets and confessions are meant for true love and sisters; yet his observations of me penetrated to my deepest parts. I was scared, yet intrigued. I was paralyzed by his visual embrace, and I wanted to smile, for he lacked his own.
But then what?
What direction would the tiniest bit of cheer introduce into our awkward communication? Awkward on my part, I suppose, for he had no trouble looking my way, looking at me, looking into me. Does this kind of skill come only with practice? Or is it confidence that strikes a man to do such a thing. I do not have the answers.
What I do know is that he walked away. He walked away as though I were only a passing glance, but he took with him a bit of my soul. He saw something in me that even I was afraid to confess.
That I had seen him before.
