That cigarette hangs from his mouth so delicately, and I catch myself eyeing the way it plays from his lips. I hate the damn things, but I'm intrigued at how the mixture of that smell and his cologne manages to draw me in.
He's intriguing, nothing more. If I were to actually admire anything it would be his wit. His age betrays him, but when he smiles or laughs he looks decades younger. Happiness does that to people, I've found. I love to see the smiles that stretch across his face, forming imperfect lines—genuine joy for something is beautiful.