Any steady form of eye contact. Only if she willed it.
She could often feel his ardor course through her whole being.
Away and afar.
Or in close proximity.
Any ruse for the latter.
Just to be around. Her presence.
Comfortable silences. Just being.
Or free-flowing conversation.
Craving for either form of communication.
To unravel the enigma she is. One thought or gesture at a time.
He couldn’t help but convey.
And she couldn’t help but notice.
What is it that they call it?
A spark? Chemistry? Dynamics?
It was so obvious to her, and to him.
And yet never to anyone else around.