His forehead scaled such great heights that Kat was reminded of white cliffs, Dover, chalk dust. His hair was a small weedy scraggle of strands: anemones maybe, over-styled, definitely. He had those eyes that old fisherman had, somehow dry and yet somehow watery.
In turns, he stared at her or cleared his throat. It seemed like some private ritual, a path to nirvana tied up in nervousness. Hand folded over hand, thick blonde hairs against his leathered skin. When Kat reached out to stroke his arm, he made a small murmur, like an animal in the sun.