She smells of pheromones and mischief. I tell her to do that thing with her eyes. She looks at me puzzled and cocks her left eyebrow. “No, that other thing.” Confusion gives way to irritation. She then giggles when she realizes that I am taking advantage of the fact that she does not know me that well yet. I am joking. With her, it is all in the eyes. Her soul is in her eyes. They glint with gleeful naughtiness and her wild life seems to hide within them. They glow darkly, smoldering, only ever giving up hints of the brilliant mind and golden heart behind them.
I find it hard to tear myself away from her gaze, mostly because I want her to tell me again how “cute” she finds me. I am trying to fill a new emptiness, the space where my patience with myself used to be, that void left by my self-assuredness. I keep losing and then finding it, and today I have lost it. No one knows this but me. She pulls me away from myself, from curling back into my thoughts and daydreams, by bringing me to this place, her space, where there are no inhibitions and no judgment.
I do not know who I am when I am around her and she knows this. This excites us both, the uncertainties and the possibilities. I see lights flickering behind her brooding look, a fire that draws us into her orbit, the poor moths that we are. From out of me, into her, from my shell, with sinful beckoning, into her world, a world of the things I want and got and then did not want and then wanted again. Do that thing with your eyes, that thing, that thing that makes me want things.