Indigo Eyes

I observe the person in front of me. Her honey hair lies thick and heavy; it is straight until her strong, broad shoulders. Then, it frizzes and curls indistinguishably into every direction.

A creamy, macadamia-nut colored sweater slightly contrasts with her hair. The sleeves lap at her wrists as they are not able to stretch to the elegant length of her arms. Underneath the bulky sweater lies a punchy salmon camisole that gives life to her otherwise muted appearance.

My eyes wander to her lower body, on which she sports coffee corduroys. They fit loosely; leaving ripples down the length of her gangly legs. With her knees bent, her delicate ankles are exposed and my focus shifts to her feet.

She dons chocolate brown Oxford flats that seem to have been frequently worn. The leather has been worn-down at the heel and there are obvious creases near the bend in her toes. The usual shine of leather is also gone, but this only adds to the character of the shoes.

I take a good look at her face for the first time. She has full, rosy cheeks and porcelain skin. The features on her face are delicate – like the rest of her body. Her eyes are slightly down-turned, as if she could spontaneously burst into tears. They are the deepest blue; resembling indigo, they appear almost purple beneath her golden lashes.

Her eyelashes lure my meticulous stare to her petite nose that is sprinkled lightly with cinnamon freckles. I follow the straight line of the bridge of her nose to the small dimple between her nostrils. Below that, the bright pink of dry lips is bright against her snowy skin. And, below her lips, a wide chin meshes flawlessly into the overall round shape of her face.

I am shaken from this intense concentration by a croak from the aging radiator at the far end of the room. I decide to distract myself with a magazine from the rack to my left, indiscriminately choosing one of the outdated Time issues. Pages are filled with thousands of words about conflicts that have already been solved. These meaningless articles fail to capture my attention. Meanwhile, questions run through my mind like a teleprompter.

I look at the girl across the room. Our eyes meet briefly, and I resume flipping through pages. Carefully, I peek through my eyelashes. She seems to be studying a magazine contently.

Quietly, I lift myself out of the hard plastic chair; maneuvering myself quickly – fearing the arousal of the beautiful girl. My gait is a tad awkward as my steps are large and my weight unevenly distributed on the balls of my feet. I replace the magazine on a different rack than I had gotten it. Instead of outdated Time magazines, this one had a greater selection of equally dilapidated and unappealing issues of Travel – Leisure and National Geographic.

I rotate one-hundred-eighty degrees and commence the awkward gait back to my seat. As I near the dull blue chair, I can peripherally see the girl is no longer in her previous position. I turn to face her new position – standing directly across from me.

“Hello?” I ask hoping for a response.

Her mouth moves but sound does not escape. We exchange quizzical looks. Then, simultaneously, we take the same hesitant measured steps towards each other.

As we continue to come together, our eyes never wander from each other. Her head is cocked and her eyes are wide, she seems nervous yet intrigued. I wear a similar facial expression. Finally, we are face to face.

I realize cannot feel or hear her breath, but I reach out slowly to touch her porcelain skin. My eager fingertips only meet cold, smooth glass.

She was only a reflection… but I am not the girl I saw.





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