Concrete Eyes

I hate school. Not for the reasons you may think. I don’t mind the work or the boring lectures. My problem revolves around something that sounds so typically teenage that I won’t be surprised if you stop reading this right now. You see, it’s this guy. He stares at me, not licentiously but equally as disturbing, it’s almost medicinal. It’s like he is evaluating me. He avoids eye contact with me preferring to keep his secrets close to himself. The few times I have caught his eyes with mine his gaze has been cold, hard, confrontational. Just thinking about those eyes gives me a bigger chill than any winter’s day.

No matter how terrifying his eyes, this narrative wouldn’t be complete without a further description of him. He is slight of build, about one hundred twenty pounds on a five foot, eleven inch frame. He always wears a hat, pulled down so that it cast a shadow over the blue eyes I described earlier. He is wearing a baggy, grey print sweatshirt and faded olive green pants. If you saw him on the streets, you wouldn’t notice him and I think that is how he likes it. We’’re taking an English test right now on the poetry of Emily Dickinson, the Goddamn dark slut that she is. His presence alone shakes me up too much to have any prayer of passing this exam so I just watch. Anyway, I watch him write with meticulous thought as if the fate of his grade rests on every specific word choice. His cracked and dry lips pursed ever so slightly, his head bent low to the desk inspecting the curves and angles of each individual character. It’s frightening how devoid of emotion his mechanical movements are.

I hand in my barely worked on paper as the bell blares, ready to go to my locker and get away from his oppressive gaze. English is the last class of the day and he usually heads straight out of the building. Today, however, he’’s following me down the halls lit with fluorescent lights, through the crowds of back packs and phonies. He pushes steadily on, those eyes fixed on me. I ignore him, hoping he is not following me. Maybe he is just going to the bathroom or something. His steadfast stubbornness opens a path before him. His shadowy, haggard form marches on with an unexpected energy all fixated on me.

I come to my locker, not daring to look behind me for fear of what I might see. I feverishly work the combination. The fluid pumping through my veins is a mixture of blood with a high concentration of adrenaline. His brooding aura gave away his presence behind me before his shadow cast over me. Soundlessly he places his hand on my shoulder and gently turns me around. I try to look into his eyes to find out his intentions but he keeps them hidden, averted. In my search for his eyes, I miss his hand moving from behind his back. He softly presses a single carnation into my hand. Our hands meet and it is like the Native Americans say, the meeting of flesh is the truest connection of our souls. I see clearly, deeply into those eyes, no longer cold. I see intelligence and desire. I see everything about him, his goals, his motivation, his pain. In that brief moment I become him.

Then it is over, he turns his back to me and walks away. He slips into the anonymity of the bustling teenager all looking for the wrong things. He glances back once and I see the mechanical being back again. All of the cold is back in his eyes. He turns and walks away. I quickly lose sight of him and somehow feel empty because of it. For all the ice and concrete in those eyes, they are the most beautiful objects in the world.