Those Roguish Eyes

You catch only a glimpse at first, out of the cloudy corner of your vision: my bronze eyes framed by a wry smile as I regale the others at the pub with another amusing story. Your curiosity aroused, your head turns. Our gazes meet across the bar, and you take a deep drink from my soft, hazel pools. But all it does is make you thirsty for more. My attention returns to my friends as I continue my tale, and I occasionally glance your way, offering you sips, but never enough to satiate.

You smile, thinking I don’t notice, but I do. My story is no longer for them; it’s for you now. The beginnings of crow’s feet emerge and disappear as I grin, delighted in the reminiscing of my narration. Your friends would tell you they are a sign of age, but you know in your soul they are the product of merriment and mirth.

The denouement of my tale draws close. I direct my full attention on you. My caramel eyes dance in the light of the neon signs as I build the story to its climax. I give you a playful smile.

You laugh.

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