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.
Did you just observe(nicely phrased, by the way) or did you brave an introduction?
Ah, that’s the beauty of fiction my darling. Nobody knows what was the thread of truth, what was extrapolation from there, what actually happened.
I have complete deniablity. ~wink~