Beauty in the Beholder

When they enter the coffee shop, she is just a shy, skinny little slip of a girl, eighteenish, brownish hair a little longer than a page boy haircut.  The flannel shirt is not provocative, and her skinny jeans are not jeggings.  Demure and quiet she sits and waits for him to order.

He sits down and they negotiate the space of the small table so that they face each other.

The barista calls out, and she rises and returns with their drinks, and their world shrinks.  She looks nowhere else but his face.  She checks no phone.  She is not scanning the room.  She is smiling for him — from somewhere deep within.  Her face adds a radiance.  Her eyes are a tad rounder, her mouth is holding in concentration, smiles, laughs when he is funny, and her whole face nods when she nods, and her quiet laughter enfolds their small space.

The eyes wrinkle when she smiles.  It is genuine.

She rolls from side to side and gyrates a little when she smiles, blushes, or walks through the charms on her bracelet and where each originated.

As their minutes together unfold, she gestures widely when talking.  Her laugher rings in the room.  She cannot lean forward any more or she would be in the table.  She is expressive, open, fascinated.

He will never have a better audience.  Never be funnier, never be followed this closely, this adoringly by anyone.

I hope he can see what is obvious to me from two tables away.

Leaving she has a lilt in her step, and somehow can walk while focusing sideways on him.

He is a little shy, a tad forced, and awkward.  When walking away and she cannot see, he jerks off his stocking cap and smooths his hair that we can’t see with the cap.

Good for him.  Good for them.  Now, be very careful with such a tiny flame.   Take it as sacred.  Treat it reverently.