“You have piano fingers,” he says. “Long tapering fingers full of grace.”
Her fingers relax in his and he caresses them, from base to tip, from base to tips.
“Aww, that’s nice.”
“Do you play?”
“Oh, no! But I would like to,” she says, smiling. “I once had a teacher offer to teach me.”
“Why didn’t you learn?”
She scoffs and looks down at her fingers in his hands, fluorescent in the blue LED lights. “He wasn’t serious.”
“I wish I could. What a waste of wonderful fingers.”
She smiled and half-moon dimples appear in her smooth cream skin looking moon-kissed and enchanted in the dim lights.
“Wow, look at, look at, look at?” he says.
A look of mock concern appears on her face trying vainly to oust the smile.
“Your dimples.” Her smile widens and the dimples deepen. “Do you know that dimples are God’s finger tips marking your face before the clay set?”
She burst out in laughter, a shrill ringing sound, she throws her head back, as if trying to catch the wild laughter back. He reaches out and grabs her shoulder pulling her close. It could be mistaken for staying her from toppling off the tall stool but there really was no danger of that at all. “That’s not true at all,” she says, between snorts.
He lets a slight smile mar his earnest look. “Yeah, I guess you are too smart for that tale.”
She gives a little self-deprecating shrug that doesn’t do much to displace his arm touching her shoulder.
“And your puffy cheeks that flank this beautiful beautiful nose,” the arm on the shoulder becomes an index finger making a butterfly perch, light yet sure on her nose. Her flinch is slight, more knee-jerk twitch that a move to avoid. The butterfly leaves the nose and he cups her delicate hands in his rugged ones, and rubs them with his thumbs.
With his eyes on hers, he says, “I would love to kiss your cowrie lips.”
She giggles but her hands stay and her shoulders only shake in mirth, and his hands slide up to her elbows and back to wrists, elbows to wrists, and his earnest look does not falter.
It’s all in suggestions.