#29 His Eyes

by Eliza Mimski

Skeeter turned on the bathroom light and slipped out of her nightgown. She told herself to be brave. Slowly, she raised her eyes and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. There she was, all five foot ten of her with a flaming red bush and pasty white skin. She was knock-kneed. She could count her ribs. She had squiggles for breasts. If only she could gain ten pounds.

Seductively, she posed. She jutted out her chest, but nothing but flatness greeted her. She then moved in closer to the mirror and pressed her lips against the glass that magically turned into Santo's lips. Pathetic, she knew, but she couldn't help it. “I love you,” she said, and closing her eyes, she imagined him saying it back to her.

Taking a step backward, she studied her big pouty mouth. It was her best feature, yet her haunted, switch-blade eyes scared her. Cold January eyes, locked doors meant to keep people out.

She returned to her bedroom and flopped down on the bed. She clawed at the sheet. Santo would love her, vacant eyes and all. His sexy accent would tell her so. When he spoke, birds flew out of his mouth. When he looked at her, she melted. His eyes. He had the most beautiful eyes. They were dark brown oceans that she drown in.