Tricia didn't know it, but Jon had been in love with her for several years. Jon had decided Tricia didn't really need to know, because the idea of expressing his feelings about her made him feel ever so faintly ill. Frustration, he felt, was better than rejection. However, one evening in June he found himself full of Courage--- not to mention numerous other ales that he had been steadily sinking over a seven hour drinking session.
It was around eight in the evening when Tricia entered the bar. Jon was half-way through pint number nine when he noticed her. He knew he had to play it cool, and immediately stumbled towards her with all the grace and elegance of a new born foal.
'Tricia' he said, slurring slightly. 'You are so beautiful I want to tear my eyes out of my skull and set on them on fire.'
Tricia, obviously stunned by this bold and eloquent declaration of romantic affection, ignored Jon and joined her friends at a nearby table. Shortly afterwards Jon heard very loud and raucous laughter. He didn't mind--- he'd made progress. She knows who I am!
Several days later Jon received a letter. It was from Tricia. He opened it with nervous excitement and read the message over and over again. He took long sniffs of the paper. It smelled of her. Jon carefully folded the letter, tied it with an elegant red ribbon, and placed it gently in the box with his other romantic correspondence.
Jon vowed to show Tricia just how deeply he cared for her by respecting her formal request to stay at least one hundred yeards away from her at all times.
Showing posts with label Eyes on Fire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eyes on Fire. Show all posts
Monday, 20 May 2013
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Eyes on Fire by Lesley Whyte
He's beautiful. I've never seen anything like his face. Every line could have been carved like Michaelangelo. His skin is poreless but it glistens with something like sweat, only without the odour. He shines under their bright lights, but that isn't all. He shines, he glows. He always has. He's always been beautiful to me. The way his curls of light brown hair stick to his brow when he's hard at work. The way his hands shake sometimes, like he's afraid of what he's doing. They're shaking now. I smile. His eyes lock onto mine and they're on fire. Like we're alone together. Like I'm his everything, his last chance, his redemption. His everything.
And then they flick the switch. The chemicals start to bleed into him. The chemicals that will take away everything that makes him who he is. He closes his eyes, breaking our eye contact, destroying our last moment together. I don't blame him. This is almost as hard for him as it is for me.
And then they flick the switch. The chemicals start to bleed into him. The chemicals that will take away everything that makes him who he is. He closes his eyes, breaking our eye contact, destroying our last moment together. I don't blame him. This is almost as hard for him as it is for me.
Eyes on Fire by Sara Travis
From the corner I watch her work the room.
She walks – no, no – she saunters between the cliques of people, lifting her glass in manicured fingers, laughing her tinkling laugh that wraps itself around my heart, squeezing and squeezing until I think I might die. She leans in closer to hear the punch line of some joke, throwing her head back and placing a playful hand on his chest. It’s torture but I can’t look away. Her auburn curls sit around her shoulders, and God, what I wouldn’t give to run my hands through them. She kicks her heels off to dance with him, and her feet are perfect, her toes are perfect, her legs are perfect. She is perfect and I want her to be mine, but she will never be mine because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me. I stand in the darkened corner and I sip my beer and I avoid eye contact with anyone and I stare at my shoelaces and I ignore the pangs of hunger in my stomach because this is a party so there’s a buffet, and I can’t eat from the buffet because how much is too much? I think I read that it’s socially unacceptable to go back for seconds at a buffet, so then do I just pile as much food on as I can and ignore the looks from my co-workers, and the not-so-subtle glances at my beer belly, or do I just take a small plate and eat in the corner and hope I don’t have potato salad in my beard? No, better to have nothing and burn the calories from lunch simply by standing up. Don’t look at her, you’ll make it obvious. Stop it. Don’t look at her. She’s dancing to a slow song now, and his hands are on her waist and her head is against his shoulder and if I squint a bit it’s almost as if she’s dancing with me and what I’m seeing now is an out-of-body experience, but his hand is lower, grazing her lower back, and that’s not me, because that’s impolite, I’m a gentleman, and now I’m staring again, but it’s so much effort to look away when she’s so beautiful, so perfect, and so not mine. So I don’t look away, I stare and now I don’t care who knows it, I’m staring because she is heaven and if my eyes were lasers I could burn a hole straight through his head and swoop in to catch her before she falls, and she’ll know at last and she’ll love me back and we will be perfect.
But it doesn’t work like that. She never dances her dances with me. And every time I feel my gut coil with envy. Because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me.
She walks – no, no – she saunters between the cliques of people, lifting her glass in manicured fingers, laughing her tinkling laugh that wraps itself around my heart, squeezing and squeezing until I think I might die. She leans in closer to hear the punch line of some joke, throwing her head back and placing a playful hand on his chest. It’s torture but I can’t look away. Her auburn curls sit around her shoulders, and God, what I wouldn’t give to run my hands through them. She kicks her heels off to dance with him, and her feet are perfect, her toes are perfect, her legs are perfect. She is perfect and I want her to be mine, but she will never be mine because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me. I stand in the darkened corner and I sip my beer and I avoid eye contact with anyone and I stare at my shoelaces and I ignore the pangs of hunger in my stomach because this is a party so there’s a buffet, and I can’t eat from the buffet because how much is too much? I think I read that it’s socially unacceptable to go back for seconds at a buffet, so then do I just pile as much food on as I can and ignore the looks from my co-workers, and the not-so-subtle glances at my beer belly, or do I just take a small plate and eat in the corner and hope I don’t have potato salad in my beard? No, better to have nothing and burn the calories from lunch simply by standing up. Don’t look at her, you’ll make it obvious. Stop it. Don’t look at her. She’s dancing to a slow song now, and his hands are on her waist and her head is against his shoulder and if I squint a bit it’s almost as if she’s dancing with me and what I’m seeing now is an out-of-body experience, but his hand is lower, grazing her lower back, and that’s not me, because that’s impolite, I’m a gentleman, and now I’m staring again, but it’s so much effort to look away when she’s so beautiful, so perfect, and so not mine. So I don’t look away, I stare and now I don’t care who knows it, I’m staring because she is heaven and if my eyes were lasers I could burn a hole straight through his head and swoop in to catch her before she falls, and she’ll know at last and she’ll love me back and we will be perfect.
But it doesn’t work like that. She never dances her dances with me. And every time I feel my gut coil with envy. Because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me.
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