Big, brown, deep-set eyes. I’ve read that description before, a thousand times over. A stock phrase in books. People describe their beloved’s eyes with such absurd metaphors, as if peering through another’s pair clued you in to some secret, frenzied world only to be entered by those willing, much more allowed. To me, all eyes are the same. They live off borrowed light and converted photons. On the outside, however, all they do is stare. All you do is stare.
You don’t speak. When you do it’s about nonsensical things, like the weather, or how the clock on your car’s stereo is twenty minutes advanced, ergo, even though it’s twelve past one, we still have eight minutes left. I look at you and nod even though your eyes are now on the road. Eight minutes. Plenty of time to see where this leads. For one, it does not have to lead anywhere.
You and I have talked about this before –indirectly, of couse, because we would rather be absolutely anything in the world but blunt. Because if you do, you become predictable, you told me once, when I asked you why we need mind-games when the truth is out there, yearning to be picked off the ground and told. The curse of adulthood: the refusal of ingenuity.
Reliability, apparently, is a sign of weakness.
No, it is not, you say. Ah, yes. Only the appearance of it. Make it seem like you are, you become susceptible to the unwanted weight of those eternally in flight. It’s just power play, a question of dominance.
You and me, we are everywhere, all at once. We outgrow places, things, people. One day, I would come back to this city and chance upon this road or that café and all I would see is how it needs neither you nor me to stand complete. Or perhaps, I won’t even remember. You won’t either, you’ll be halfway around the world, staring into someone else’s eyes.
We do away with words, sometimes. We just look at each other and smile.