Writing Practice, June 9 2015
She sees through her tears, looking at me with a defeat. It is a new kind of defeat for her, built from exhaustion, bad news, more bad news. I feel she could collapse in this moment, from dehydration or despair. She’s strong. I see the muscles in her shoulders when she breathes, slower now that all of it is out in the open. I’ve told her everything. The worst is over, if learning of it is worse than living with it. If not, then I guess it’s just beginning. Those eyes. Bloodshot. Deep set. The kind that pierce through you, no matter how little you might know her. Not that she’s of a kind. Not that there’s anyone else with eyes like hers. Not that there’s anyone else who now knows what she knows.