Emerald Eyes

Emerald Eyes

Her eyes are the color of those emeralds. I must have the earrings. My beloved has so much jewelry, but what is that to me? I have my vices, she has hers.

The truth is I overlook her little peccadilloes. Of which there are many. But to smooth the waters, so to say, I give her jewelry. But I do have one problem with this whole scenario. I never actually see her wear any of the jewelry once I give the gift.

So one day I asked her, “Majorca, where are those earrings I gave you for your birthday?”

“Which ones? You’re always giving me jewelry, John. I can’t keep all of it straight.” She was brushing her red hair. Then she turned around, flashed those green eyes at me. Just for a second I sensed some anger, or was it fright? It almost reminded me of a caged animal’s gaze. Almost.

“Surely you remember those pearls. They were the drops with the diamond at the top. Set in gold. You said they were lovely.”

She continued the brushing of her auburn hair. I stood behind her, stroked it, felt the heft of it in my hands. “Oh, those. They’re in my jewelry box. With all the other earrings. I only have two ears, John. I cannot begin to wear all those earrings you give.” Majorca removed her hair from my hands and stood. “I have to dress now.”

Now I need to find the truth. I go searching. Her jewelry box is empty. Nothing in her dresser or closet. Where are the treasures?

The day a note appeared on the counter, the riddle was solved. She’d been selling the jewelry back to the store.

“Thanks for the jewelry. It helped pay for my new life,” signed Majorca aka Mark.

W/C 300