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
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
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!