Your Face, My Heart

They turned their heads at the same time, meeting eyes in an overwhelmingly intense way that she broke on principle alone, her eyes dropping to loose v-neck bed shirt he wore to find a distraction. She skirted along his plethora of prison tattoos, examining them now that she had the opportunity. “They were free,” he told her, almost to explain the extent of most of them, both in look and subject matter, and it managed to get a small amused quirk of her lip. If she were him, she may have been embarrassed too. The “Karl Marx” spelled out on his knuckles that she had seen earlier was a bit gaudy. He was absolutely littered in Soviet propaganda, information that they both believed for many years, but him even more so. In the past twenty she’d begun to crumble in rage, breaking from the ideology that had locked her into a life of misery. As she followed the intricate lines of them, scrutinizing and admiring all the same, she suddenly stopped, a frown sitting on her lips.