A Blind Man's Stare

She likes to laugh. I can tell that by the easy lines radiating out from her eyes. Each one is telling and re-telling a favourite joke. They cut short, so she’s in her middle years. Late thirties at the youngest.
 
Her hair is fine, like newly spun silk running through my fingers. If I had to guess at the colour I would say it was the colour of the new moon’s sigh as it crested the world, with a touch of the soft snow crunching underfoot. Possibly a small amount of the cooing of turtle doves sprinkled in.
It’s well kept, clearly brushed one hundred times each night before bed. No rough or split ends here.
 
Her forehead is smooth with only the odd blemish. The remnants of Chicken Pox scars from her youth? No, it’s something else. The tiny, almost imperceptible divots like a script beneath my fingertips. I think she suffered with blackheads as an adolescent. I don’t mention it to her.
 
Her ears are small, the fleshy lobe attached to her, possessively. As well it might. Two piercings, no, three in her right ear, only two in the left. The top one in the right didn’t seem to have taken too well. Perhaps it was an old piercing, newly reopened.
Her ears are sensitive; she turns slightly when my fingers brush them.
 
Her nose is turned up, like how the upper crust is described in those old books. She isn’t snooty though, I can tell. It was broken once before, maybe twice. Was she feisty or unlucky? More of those divots here. I move on.
 
Her lips are small, not thin though. They break apart in a smile as I see them with my fingers. I smile as well. Chuckling softly she pulls her head demurely away, taking my hand in hers. I can feel the calluses on her fingers pressing into my palm. A guitarist, I think. She has a firm and confident grip, yet her thumb is caressing the back of my hand, sending small sparks of sensation racing up my arm.
 
“Are you staring at me?” She asks with a more than a hint of flirtation. I catch the small hesitation. She was wondering if it was too soon for that sort of joke.
 
“I’m afraid I am.” And I was. She was beautiful.