Besotted

I only remember that he wore red, that day. Was it a jacket, a shirt or a kurta? Only that his neck seemed to be held by something red. On his head was a mass of thick unruly curls, not to be held together. He had combed them straight back from his forehead with the same firmness and deliberation that he lent to his words. Instead of making him look older, it lent a curious sensuality to his face. His forehead was not too large, his nose sharp and mouth, an ubiquitous shape. His smile revealed a row of pearly teeth, though he rarely smiled. A pair of spectacles sat lightly on the bridge of his nose. Like Karna's armour, he seemed to have been born with it. The frame was old. His hands were long and sinewy and his fingers were fine, long and thin. Dirt outlined his fingernails. When he spoke, he folded his ring finger slightly. The end of each sentence was punctuated with a small jerk of his hands. When he was searching for words, he stroked his middle finger against his thumb. His wrist bone was prominent, round, like a vital bolt connecting his palm and forearm.