Eyes of Passion

At lunch I felt the presence of someone staring at me while I wrote. I look up eager to engage the stare, she turns away. Curiously I watch. She is older than I, eyes of passion define her. She radiates--helpless romantic. We hold a gaze--just a moment. She speaks French, how an accent melts me. I utter no words, letting my eyes do the talking. Her's shine so brightly piercing metal like the craftsman of the souq. On we went, eyes engaging in a tantalizing game of passion. We leave the restaurant at nearly the same time. I reach the street, disappearing into the mass of the plaza. No words were uttered, none needed. We were perfectly fulfilled from afar. I will cherish her half-smile and suggestive glances. She is my love of Marakech.