I couldn’t tell how things registered with him when our eyes locked easily in languorous embrace. I thought I could, stroking his brows of sandy shade, that earliest smoothness with mustache and hair graying. The hair beneath my fingertips, felt incredibly soft and smooth. Pure. A belief, a certainty? They did happen - those eyes, those brows, obligated as I feel to call them a dream, waking up slowly into history and another set of brows.