She laughed and held her hand to her mouth. She turned away then set her eyes upon him. “I prefer my own space,” she said directly, but he didn’t look away. Then she rested her chin on her hands, feeling the stance gave her license to study him at her whim. It was her artist’s way as she would with any subject. He kept his gaze, but turned his head slightly. Through focused eyes she slowly analysed his facial topography. She framed him in her fingers like a cinematographer studying a scene. He tried not to smile. She imagined painting him in oils – brown stabby brush strokes for his short curly hair tufted past his ears, deep brown flows for his eyes with pin of black. Lighter brown for the long bushy side-burns that merged into the tangle of un-resolved beard and moustache. She noticed how the hair swirled on the underside of his chin. "Like van Gogh," she whispered. She rubbed out his beard – shaved it off in her mind.
He saw her eyes shift as if she was trying to visualise his life. He second guessed her. “It’s a sign of mourning.”
“What is?” she asked.
“My beard, it’s a sign of mourning,” he said.
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