Striking

It was warm.

Not hot like she had been expecting – a soft, gentle warmth that saturated her every extremity down to her fingertips. Like stoking the fire of a small heater, one bundle of sticks at a time. She was nestled snugly under the pale blue sheets watching sleepily as the man beside her dozed on. His grey hair looked more frazzled than normal and it was strange to her to see him so relaxed. The sharp intelligence in his blue eyes had always been striking and they were now closed to her.

Dinner conversation had been polite, ranging all over from Shakespeare to the latest blockbuster film; the two were completely absorbed in their own world for the night while the din of the crowd rose and fell around them.

She stretched her neck and shoulder blades with a soft groan, sparing a brief glance at his watch lying askew on the nearby intable. Nearly 2:15 in the afternoon. She returned her arm back to her side and burrowed back into the blankets with a puff of a sigh.

At some point she became aware that one of them had moved closer – or perhaps they both had, as neither one had been seated quite so close to the middle of the booth during the appetizer course. The cutlery felt cumbersome in her hands and the long white tablecloth brushed coarsely against her shins every time she moved her legs

The silence was a comfortable one. She traced the rough edge of his jawline with one finger from below his ear to the tip of his chin and nestled closer, bundling the sheets to herself and slid one arm around, stroking his cheek with her knuckles. Above, she felt the soft pressure of his lips on her hair; her shifting had woken him. She tilted her head back to look at him in the morning haze.

His shoulder was touching hers and neither one could say when that had happened. They both noticed at the same time and paused, holding each other's gaze.

He really did have such striking eyes.