His eyes are a piercing blue that stare deep into my soul with indifference; observant and yet, non-judgmental. He does not blink. All that keeps me from feeling nervous are the wrinkles that escape the corner of his eyes. They drape around his blank facial expression like the dunes of an undisturbed desert, drifting away from his analytical blue irises. The wrinkles direct my attention to his hands.
His hands are the work of labour and they are, (I would assume), experienced in the art of woodwork. One hand is closed into a fist for support, resting just below his right cheekbone. The other hand rests lightly beside his left cheek, modeling, with gentle sophistication, the ashes of a cigarette that threaten to fall apart – he has not inhaled its tobacco in a timely while. He lets it rest there for a few minutes just as he stares, with blankness, into the depths of my youthful expression.
It is unimaginable that his posture would suggest any sense of fragility because one gets a sense of accomplishment when he is first seen. This is a man who has experienced much in life.
“What is he thinking?” I contemplate to ask but wonder (and fear) what the white, well-kept moustache below his long, stretched nose will say to me in response. So I keep the silence alive and stare back into his eyes. I feel the tension between us as we sit there under the dim-lit room.
“Check mate,” he says without a tone of excitement in his rusty voice.
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