She was finding it hard to not look at him. She was glad he was driving right now.
She noticed his hands for the first time. His face didn't betray his age. He was too colored, by experience or value, to have something so insignificant obviously displayed on his features.
He fiddled his hand over the steering wheel. She could see a few protruding veins. His forearms, still half-covered, showed skin that looked worn and weary, but heavily muscled. She wondered why she had ever looked to his face to find his age. It clearly was of less use to her than his hands.
He readjusted himself beside her, picking his left leg up and propping it up to his thigh in the drivers seat. The closed triangle lost her attention.
She looked to her own hand, wondering if the age was displayed in it, as well. Pale, fleshy, youthfulness; nothing marred by lines or dryness to meet her view. Perhaps, this was just a marker of work. She had done little with her time. He looked over at her for a moment, eyes grinning with what his mouth wouldn't dare speak. They lock eyes and when the contact breaks, continue to drift down the road.
"How old are you?" She asks him. The first words she had spoken to him since their physical encounter. He considers her for a moment.
"I'm 40."
"Oh."
"What?" He asks her.
"I don't know."