in Short Fiction

Whiplash

They were brown. We were in bed. Like mine. I was looking into them and she was making a face. Funnily enough, for the longest time I’d thought that my eyes were black. I don’t know why. Definitely not sub-consciously projecting my feelings of inadequacy onto my body image. That would be way too pedestrian. Let’s just call it fake news and move on, shall we? So, her brown eyes looking into mine and mine looking into hers. And it was too early. But I was falling in. I kept my mouth shut but my heart skipped a beat. My brain pitched in with a healthy reminder. Was I rushing or was I dragging? A cymbal thrown at my metaphorical head and my heart was back in tempo. Until she smiled and made a kissy face at me. And I felt the tug again. And I started falling. Again.


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