All she could do was stare at the back of his head,
and at his hair, which was all she could see of him,
waiting and hoping he would turn around.
Perhaps she had memorized the exact colour and length of his hair,
or the way it fell in place after he ran his fingers through it.
But she wanted to see something other than just the back of his head,
and she wished that she'd be able to instead memorize
the precise shade of his eyes in the sun
or count the light dusting of freckles beside his nose
and each individual eyelash while he looked at the ground.
She longed to know how his cheeks flushed when he was happy
and how the tears clung to his bottom lashes when he was sad.
She just wished he would turn around.