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.
          

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