Heterochromia

“Look at me,” he says, touching her cheek.
“Do I have to?” She says, peering at him over her shoulder. “I don’t really like it when people look into my eyes, you know. They’re always… scrutinizing”
“I won’t scrutinize,” he says, as he begins to do just that—searching the bewildering chaos of her gaze. Her left eye is green, dotted with sparks of maroon and gold, the right is a swirl of purple and chocolate. They simultaneously draw one in and keep one at bay. He is unable to see beyond the variegated colors, into the longing hollows of her pupils. She senses that he too is stuck in the foyer, as with all the others. She pulls away and lifts the dangling strap of her black cotton camisole.
“God, it’s useless. I’m a freak.”
“No, no. You’re so beautiful, I’m sorry.”
“I just, I should have never taken out my contacts.” She gets up from the bed and walks to the dresser, taking the contact lenses out of twin pools of solution and dabbing them back onto her eyes, blinking awkwardly.
“Look, forget I asked, come back here.” The young man gets up, puts his hands on her arms, pulls her in for a kiss, but she brushes him off curtly. She picks her jeans up off the floor and slips them on quickly, the cold denim presses against her warm sex achingly. She pushes him down onto the bed and he looks up at her, all muscles and dopey innocence in his boxer shorts. It’s no use. He’s gorgeous and stupid, and she’s so very horny.

a gust of wind sweeps the field of irises from the dimpled lake

 

Clayton Beach

Heterochromia

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