spugletspeaks

You fall fast. Though seated, you know he’s tall. Long, strong fingers, pale against his dark suit, fair, with a hint of curl and that melancholy gaze. And the nose: that crooked, monstrous nose, and you, well, you’ve always had a thing for noses.
It’s rude to stare. You move on past, watch instead the other faces and rest your eyes on the older gentleman, the one with the complacent smile, the jowls and the grey whiskers. You look closer. He has the same name. Time, or the artist, has ruined your nose.
It wouldn’t have lasted. You walk on.