Beautiful Face

I'd see him on the steps of the church. He'd never go in and I'd never approach him. I didn't know what drew me to him but I loved him. I'd make up any excuse just to walk pass him; pick up groceries, drop mail, anything to see him; but he could never see me. The man; whom I admired so much, was blind. Most people walked by and disregarded him as a mere beggar. I saw that he was more. He was an artist. He'd sit on the steps and sketched whatever paraded in his mind. I think that was what I loved most about him; his vision despite his blindness.
I walked pass him once and glanced at his drawing. He hand had smudged most of the conte which made the drawing unrecognizable. One would feel sorry at this sight and throw spare change in his direction; but I didn't, I couldn't. He was strong and did not need my pity or charity. His drawings told me that. Their expression spoke louder than words; I can't explain them. I saw the determination and passion in his face. He saw more than any of the day-to-day Joes that strolled by the church, oblivious to this work of art, and unaware of his beauty.
One day, as I once again decided to walk pass the church, I saw him fumbling around the bottom of the steps. He was looking for something; frantically searching for his conte crayon; he was helpless. I stopped in front of him and just looked down. I did not know whether or not he sense that someone was standing over him; maybe he did not care. I wanted to tell him that he was beautiful, that I loved him; that his drawings spoke to me in ways no foreign language could translate.
"Do you need any help?" was all I could offer him. He stopped his search and looked up as if he could see me.
"Actually," he started, "this is rather embarrassing, but I seem to have dropped something; a piece of conte. I've never allowed it to leave my hand but..." he trailed off. He didn't have to finish. I started scanning the steps for that piece of conte. It was the only way I could do something for him and he would be pleased. He would remember that voice that offered him assistance and that voice was mine. That blasted piece of conte was carelessly lying by his foot. I picked it up and clutched it in my hand. Gently, I took his hand and place the conte back where it belonged. There was a moment of silence until I started to leave.
"See you around;" was all I could say.
"Wait!!" he called out to me. I stopped abruptly. "There must be some way I could thank you." I tried to protest and tell him it really was no bother but he was so very persistent. "I'll draw you," he told me.
"Excuse me?" I said in disbelief. I didn't want to sound rude. It would be an honour to have him draw me; to feel his eyes on me. But, could he see me?
"Please, let me draw a picture of you, if you are not too busy?" Whatever make-belief errand I was heading to was put on hold as I sat down next to him. He prepared his paper and conte and took a deep breath. With his hand, he felt my forehead with the tips of his fingers. They glided down my face to capture profile, caressing my lips. His fingers then brushed my cheek bone and rubbed my jaw while his other hand got down all the information given to him. He knew the curves of my face, and the texture of my skin. We bonded in that moment. He knew what I was feeling; he had to. The drawing was then finished and he handed it to me. I gasped at it; I didn't know what to say.
"You're very beautiful," he said with such certainty.
"So are you," I raised my hand to his tender face and caressed his cheek as he did to me. "You're beautiful."