The Eyes
My father married her mother when she was fifteen, I was older. I don’t know when it started, but I know for sure what I first noticed. It was her eyes. How they would look at me, linger on mine for longer than a glance. The first time, she looped an arm over the back of the sofa she was sitting on, then half-turned to look at me, I was at a desk behind her. I looked up directly into her eyes. She held my gaze for several long seconds, she didn’t blink, she didn’t smile, she didn’t glance away. I couldn’t read her, but the depth of her eyes pulled me in, I felt like I was going to drown in them. I could see the creation of man in those eyes and felt …