He looks dirty. His teeth are tinted yellow. He has terrible red stubble patching his greasy skin. He has an old baseball cap, probably because he hasn't combed it in days. His T-shirt doesn't fit. It doesn't fit his body and it doesn't fit her. She has on a nice blouse, sharp slacks. Her hair is done. She has just enough makeup to accentuate her natural beauty. She has a smile that won't quit. Her laugh has a laugh. Does he hear it? He doesn't look at her. Not as he should, not as much. She doesn't care. It doesn't matter.
He double-dips his pita bread into their plate of hummus. He licks his fingers. She kisses his cheek, his greasy cheek, his stubbled reddened scratchy cheek. Her nose brushes against his. It is a slightly crooked nose. Her lips are rather thin. Her nail polish is chipped. She laughs at almost everything. No one is that funny, certainly not him. He grunts with hummus breath, I'm sure. I'm sure there's something I'm missing. Underneath the hat, beyond the teeth, none of this matters.
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