Stolen Looks


That feeling of confusion swells as one takes the hand of their once thought nemesis to dance.

I loathed him. His provoking smirk gave rise to the frustration in me. How could one person cause so much hatred? I loathed that smirk, yet I could not help but admire it. The way his face creased perfectly, leaving an ideal center for his singular, lonesome dimple that was hidden so often from the left side of his cheek. I wondered why its appearance was so rare? His deep blue jacket perfectly matched his eyes, but not in the sense of color; More of in the idea that it brought a sparkle to his eyes that glistened off the light from the chandelier. He must have felt my staring because he quickly glanced up, meeting my eyes. My reflexes told me to look down, to hide my face from this man I hated so, but at that moment, I could not find the reasons for my hatred. Our shared gaze continued until I finally found the strength to look away. I tried to listen to the conversation between my colleagues in front of me, but I could hardly focus. I could feel his gaze continuing to linger on me. It was not intense but more soft and hopeful. I walked away, looking for fresh air to wrap my head around the previous events and regain my sensible thoughts. I found a glass of champagne and sipped it slowly. The bubbles left a tingle on my tongue. Afterward, a feeling of warmth spread through my stomach, fueling me to socialize. I continued to walk about the crowd in hopes of being swept up into a conversation, but my brisk steps enabled me to move swiftly through. As I turned my head, I was met with the sight of my sister dancing with a smile that read she was delighted to be dancing with the man who had asked. Swept up in the sight of my jovial sister, I promptly ran into a figure.  

“I am so sorry. I –”

It was him. How he found me in the crowd, I am unaware. He stared at me, the same soft, hopeful look in his eyes. Standing across from him, I was imposed to admire the height from which he viewed the world. His hair arranged imperfectly perfect in a tangle of dark brown matched the warmth in his softening brown eyes, and his eyebrows angled upwards in a look that insinuated he was nervous but hopeful. 

“ Miss Pembroke, may I have the next dance?”

“You May.”