You can tell by the way his hair bends and curls in the back that it had been in a ponytail earlier today, but now it’s just a mess of curls roving.
His legs are stretched out, feet kicked out of sandals, heels resting on his shoes; barefoot but not shoeless. Everything in his body says ease; he’s relaxed stillness on this moving bus, blinking traffic. His jeans are worn, soft in all the important places; the denim tell a story about who he is, how he’s moved.
His hands make me think he might be Irish, the broad expanse of them; solid strength. And those dark penetrating eyes that make you forget yourself for a moment …I’ve seen those on an Irish lad or two.
He laughs to himself as he flips through the paper and I can’t help but smile too.