Glass
His eyes are like glass–you think you'd be able to understand him after a while, that he's really secretly transparent, but no.
He's impossible to read. He's glass with imperfections, no matter how hard he tries to hide the flaws. Those stupid blue contacts. Fake Westerner.
He's a jerk, but he's not bad in bed. For what it's worth. Not that she really has anything to compare him to, but it was still the thought that counted. He's tapping his pencil against the table again, even though he should know by now that the tapping is the one sound that annoys her the most.
She tightens her grip on the edges of the textbook and tries to convince herself that yelling at him in the middle of the library is a Very Bad Idea. His hair's blue, too, like his eyes. The same shade, in fact. It's almost creepy–who is she kidding? It is weird.
"Stop that." The words come unbidden.
"...What?" He doesn't realize he's doing it. Or else he does and now he's just being coy to piss her off.
"That tapping."
He glances down at the paper. "I'm thinking."
"It's irritating."
He leans back in his chair with a sigh; his perfect pinstripe suit decidedly out of place amongst the student uniforms, some of whom are even now looking over in their direction in irritation.
"You're disturbing people," she murmurs. "Cut it out."
He shrugs and looks back down at the open sketchbook in front of him. A dress has started to form–one of his more outlandish pieces, no doubt; the ones that will eventually be made of fabric that gives the garment the illusion of stained glass.
Glass. He's such an opaque ass. She sighs, and tries to go back to Algebra.
He reaches across the table and grabs her hand, giving it a brisk peck of his lips, and against her better judgement, she decides she might be able to forgive him. This time.