Her beauty was not his. The curve of her cheek would never rest in his hands. The curves of body, never fall into his arms. The hands that handed him his change, would never rest upon him. Her eyes would never transfix him, nor would her smile transform him. He would not lie and study the fineness of her face: the line of her brow, the colour of her eye, the thickness of her lips. All of these things were before him, but none of them were for him.
Her beauty was not hers. It was a different beauty, though in time it was similar. And the man at the counter too was young then, and she was young and beautiful like the woman with the change. And her cheek feel in his hands. And the curves of her body fell into his arms. The woman who looked through the glass at the man and the young woman, her eyes would transfix on him then, and her smile transformed him. And she would lie and study the fineness of his face: the line of his beard, the colour of his eye, the smile on his lips. All of these things were before her now, like the were then, but that was then and the man through the window was no longer him but an older version of the man then.
Her beauty was not his. In time it would not be hers.