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Maybe it was the wrinkle in the corner of his eyes as he stared intently at my chest, finishing the knot in my ascot perfectly.
Or maybe it was the way the light caught the new silver sparkles in his raven black hair.
Or maybe it was his curtain of thick black lashes that cradled his coffee brown eyes, glistening in the sunlight that crept through the window.
Or maybe the stubble that was darkening on his chin, threatening to become a beard, just to be shaved off again in a few moments.
Or maybe the mole that sat sweetly on his left cheek (my right). Like the king he imagines he is, with his proud beauty mark.
Something about him was worth studying, every time we were this close. Even after all of these years.
Maybe it is the way his face got sweetly soft with age, but tall cheekbones left unscathed. Just as sharp as they were in youth.
Or maybe it was his eyes that sagged with his many years of pain and worry. His loss, grief and violence. Still beautiful, still a warm brown with honey centers.
Or maybe it was his blond hair that turned a moonlit silver with time. His eyebrows and eyelashes remain yet to be touched by the silver.
Or maybe it was his lips that were worn to a line through many cigarettes between them. Who knew the same lips that spit lies and deceit could be so be gentle and forgiving to him and his sons.
Or maybe it was his knobby knuckles and wrists on his slender hands as he rests them on my shoulders. Much needed rest.
“You’re staring, Old Girl.”
“So are you.”