Snap impressions

The bus drops them off and since there are no sidewalks in the neighborhood, they walk shoulder-to-shoulder in the street.
A boy and a girl, pre-teens, maybe 12 years old.
I drive the opposite way, and this is what I see when we pass:
Her hair is long and black and thick, parted in the middle. It shines in the sun.
His is moppish, black, with a wicked cowlick and tufts that bunch at his ears.
Her complexion is dark, almost olive.
He’s not fish-belly white, but there’s not a hint of even a summer tan.
She’s wearing a white shirt with blue stripes, jean Capri pants and white tennis shoes.
His T-shirt is white, with black rings at the collar and the arm holes. He wears baggy jean shorts and his black high-top tennis shoes look three sizes too big.
Her backpack is pink, slim, with black accents.
His is squarish, gray and so full, he walks with a slight stoop.
He wears wire-framed glasses in silver; the lenses are thick, bookish.
She’s explaining something to him; her arms go down to her knees and she works her fingers like she’s massaging a dog, instead of just air..
He looks at her gestures, then looks at me at the moment we pass.
He wears a daydream smile. Bliss, or as close as a human can get to it.
“She’s with me! She’s walking home with me!”
This is the look he wears.