Read Backflash

It's been a long time since someone looked at me like that; her pale blue eyes moving side to side, as if reading a book. The facial features were similar and her hair, though spun-gold honey blond, was just as curly. When we made eye contact, I found myself taken back to that one summer, that one month. I confess to conflicted emotions, but perhaps that has to do with something that was said into the either recently and then was attempted to be erased.

Really think I wouldn't see? I do not forget these things. One should know better.

There was the bittersweetness; remembering the afternoons in the French restaurant over mussels or that night when Lovecraft was read in the manner of a lullaby. There was the resentment; remembering how it ended confusingly, the asinine French-film complicated games, which were played in the after-ash. There was the acceptance; knowing that one month was quite wonderful, but, it would seem, that was all that was to be allotted, and where I am now is light years-geographically and mentally-from where I was that one summer.

The interaction lasted but a heartbeat, and she was gone, leaving me with memories and a dysfunctional tale to tell. It was queer being looked at like that again; her pale blue moving side to side as if reading a book. In the after-ash, I find myself left one lingering question; what exactly was she reading as she looked at me?