A cigarette smolders between his olive-skinned fingers with slightly less intensity than his eyes. If the plate-glass window of the pub had been solid brick, his glare still would penetrate into the room.
His expression almost doesn’t look genuine; a caricature of frustrated passion. If he were in a movie about a man spying on his ex-lover dining with another man, the audience would complain he’s overplayed the emotion. The anger in his eyes is too palpable, the nervous energy in his limbs too electric. The effect would be almost comical if it weren’t so chilling.
She must be an amazing woman to command this kind of passion. The mind paints a picture of a Mediterranean maiden of unsurpassed exotic beauty. Walking past him and looking over his shoulder, she is revealed. The inspration for the violent jealousy coiled beneath his skin like a snake in the shadows.
The World Cup is playing on the pub’s television.