Cahill
Mathilda is doing a little tap-dance with her left foot from the museum's background monotonous music.
It's actually adorable because she thinks I am staring at the painting in front of me, unknown I am looking at her through my side glace.
On sensing I am turning my head in her direction, she immediately stops and turns red.
I can feel my lips curving upward into a smirk because it's a stunningly childish thing, yet befitting of being adored.
She steals a glance in my direction to see if I still have my eyes on her. And then flushes even more, with the resemblance of a tomato when she sees that my eyes are still on her.
I realize that I am staring at her more than even the hundreds of paintings here.
