He said an artist’s eye is forensic. He specialised in cityscapes, harsh truths. He told her the nicotine color of her hair echoed vagrants’ fingers. Her speckled shirt evoked bubble-gummed sidewalks. Her…
She stood, lifted a hank of hair and waggled it like a painter’s brush. “Caramel,” she said. “Hairdressers call it caramel.” Her Americano toppled as she reached for her coat, the steaming pool a reminder to ghost him.
He wondered again if his soulmate filtering strategy was really working in his best interests.
She skipped handsome guys whose profiles didn’t say much and re-tinted platinum blonde.