Shelly’s eyes are turquoise, with a hint of brown dancing around the iris like an explosion in slow motion. She accents the color with lashes and eyeliner, but she knows as well as I do that her eyes are the kind that pop without those things. Instead, they draw you in like a breath and linger in your memory.
They are the kind of eyes that can destroy a life.
Not Shelly’s, of course, but the men she’s dated, and their dreams of a life with her. That is a graveyard full to bursting.
She wonders why I have never been attracted to her, why I have never asked her on a date. She thinks we would do well together. When I look at her, I am less certain. I see the allure, the mystery behind that stare — but facing her, I can see history looming over her shoulders, the destruction and despair left in the wake of her innocence.
And I want none of that.