Sitting across from me on the grape purple couch was a few contacts shy of a 501 jeans commercial. His skin was smooth, pale, and young. Black-rimmed glasses atop the bridge of his nose, and slightly slackened from his face gave him character and intrigue.
He sat, with his weight shifted to his right side, and played with her hair. He stretched it out until his finger tips reached the ends of the longest strands.
He never looked over at me, but something in his clean, fresh Russian face said he knew I was watching him.