Why are her blue eyes looking into his circular face? She with her symmetry and tastefully freckled skin, confident posture, and steely eyes... I sit at the table behind him, and sometimes, as he gestures and wobbles to and fro, am in a plain of sight which, as she steals glances at his satellite dish, right ear, connects us in an instant of conversation; her ashamed blue pleading to my arrogant hazel. His strait brown hair, combed from a typical leave-it-to-beaver, right forehead part, to the space about an inch above his left ear, quivers and bounces as he grows desperate for her nods and “um hms”, to become earnest interest. His acceptable size-to-height body, hunched over folded arms, grows terrifically still as she says something about work and the time and how great dinner was. His feet, covered in tall black socks, bounce down into his brown, lace shoes, then up into tubes of standard-fit, GAP blue jeans.
He’s drinking a coke. The menu explains the process from beginning to end, of how fairly and naturally the coffee comes to be sold, and he slurps a coke through puckered lips. His voice isn’t as high as his boyish appearance suggests, nor is it so deep as to require notation, but nonetheless, the sounds of his words seem stolen from someone else.
She says thanks again, and being the type that fancies herself not only desirable, but benevolent, grants him an “excessive” three sentences to communicate “goodbye”. Walking quickly and stern faced she passes by the window which meets the tables where he and I now sit alone. She shoots the steely blues across her right shoulder at the last moment possible.
As her eyes meet mine, she all calculation, forecast, and cognition, I realize that Motley Satellite Ears has escaped, protected by the brave, unique heartbeat, whose lover will someday tell him that his socks don't match his shoes.
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