Posts Tagged ‘story’

Arson In Her Eyes

Posted: November 12, 2017 in Stories, Uncategorized
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“Why do you always look away when I look into your eyes? Are you embarrassed by me or maybe you just don’t want me to see the pain in them?” I asked with a sigh of weariness.
She didn’t look up as she answered truthfully, “I’m afraid you’ll see the arsonist burning behind them and run away.”
I lifted her chin until our eyes met, a small smile on my lips, “Sometimes your eyes are all that keep me warm, I’m not going anywhere.”
I kissed her then for the first time with my eyes open, letting her see the beautiful reflection of her eyes in mine.
I felt her smile when she saw the flames.

I sat on a crooked bar stool, staring at an angel in the mirror behind the bar, and drooling over the thought of her walking by. Just close enough to catch a whiff of her shampoo, or maybe it would be her mom’s conditioner, I didn’t care. I don’t like to objectify women, but man, this girl had everything you could ever hope for. Legs, an ass, I mean everything!
I dropped my eyes to my beer in a moment of weakened confidence, well ok, so I did it to not get caught staring. I don’t wanna be labeled a pervert like that or anything, you know?
Anyhow, I didn’t hear an organ strike up as she stood, and I damn sure didn’t see the shifting light source in the bar as her halo lifted when she walked, but I’ve been telling George for years to get rid of the fucking Christmas lights in the bar. It dulls our defensive senses. That dumbass never listens though, and he wonders why there are so many glory holes in the bathroom stalls.
When she slid onto the barstool next to me, I damn near snapped my spine as I tried to straighten up and not look as pathetic as I was. She smiled shyly at me, so I mumbled, “Hey” as I wiped the sweat from my forehead and slicked back my hair with one hand. I’m a sly mother fucker that way.
“What do you do?” She asked.
“Me? I like to juggle 50 lbs. shake weights.” Well, I was gonna say it, but I may have just giggle farted awkwardly and shrugged, hoping she didn’t hear it.
“For work, I mean.” She clarified.
I casually motioned towards George by desperately flailing my arm in his direction. He poured a cheap shot glass full of some kind of courage and sat it in front of me.
I tossed it back like a pro, not even grimacing that much as I turned the 12 degrees or so that my barstool would allow and smiled, “I’m between jobs right now.”
“Oh, what did you do before?”
“I had a summer internship at the CIA,” I answered.
“Oh wow, what did you do there?” Her painted on eyebrows almost seemed to lift a little out of genuine curiosity.
I felt the muscles in my chest realign themselves into something bordering on impressive when her body language suggested she might be interested, or a prostitute. I didn’t really care which.
I struggled to look sober as I said, “I don’t actually know.”
“Oh, so it’s like classified?”
“No, no, I really don’t know. They paid me to go down to Mexico a couple of times and eat ice cream.”
Her interest dropped like the dentures of a bar fly in a bathroom stall occupied by a rock star.
“I may have killed a man though, I mean it is the CIA, nothing is as it seems.” I tried to gain back her interest.
“I always wondered, what does CIA stand for?”
I spun back around to face the bar as I held up a confident hand towards George and replied, “That’s classified.”