By tucking her chin in toward her chest, she can look up darkly through her lashes at him,
that look of almost anguished vulnerability and sensitivity, a soft, near-cry of help,
the implication of a deeply privileged and sole accessibility...yours alone, yours, yours alone,
but he's so flagrantly uncertain of himself, so clearly frightened, that he edges into comedy:
though everybody at the party is aware she's seducing him, he doesn't seem to understand;
he diddles with his silly mustache, grins and gawks, gabbles away around her about this and that.
Now she's losing interest, you can see it;
she starts to glance away, can't he see it? Fool!
Touch her! Reach across, just caress her with a finger on her cheek: fool, fool!- only touch her!


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Biondina by Lord Frederic Leighton

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