Canada Dreams
                     
Eyes
I
Mother told me more than once that there are people, crazed Gypsies mostly, people who can make you sick just by looking at you. I became involved with an amber-eyed woman who was heavily into this kind of thing, and she told me one night between couplings that all those people really do is make the sickness within you more apparent. When our affair began to sour, she arranged to have me cursed with bad luck in my career. Later, during a short reconciliation, she got four flat tires driving me to a job interview.
II
I feel queasy in the gaze of certain animals, like the ones at the zoo who manage to look smug and evil in their confinement. Go ahead, they stare, put your hand through the bars. Hold out your hand and see.
III
Seeing you seated alone and almost gleaming in a darker corner of the Blue Moon Lounge at the Outsider Inn, I knew the things I wanted to tell you would only make you think I was crazy, but that's not always bad, and it seemed as good a reason as any to try. You managed a curious grin as I approached, but you remained silent, your smile retreating as I introduced myself and babbled along about the finer points of a fantasy itinerary. When I got to the part about loincloths on a virgin stretch of tropical beach, your eyes narrowed and began to reflect the available light as a laser, burning a new hole in my nose. I bowed, returned to my barstool and ordered a double urine, neat.

Bob's other works

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