Staring had become our only form of communication. It was a contest of sorts and winning came at a price. Jack wouldn't look at me so much as through me, like my head was transparent and he was fascinated by an object two inches behind my skull. His eyes that I once fell into as my salvation instead turned my stomach every bit as badly as meeting a stranger after dark. Those long looks was how he told me of his bitterness, how he hated me for letting our love die, and that forgiveness was not his strong suit. I guess those were our final days together, though I can say without a doubt, nothing ended the way I thought it would.
Staring isn't quite the word for what Katrina does, though she'd fit the dictionary definition to a tee. Her eyes rest, not unblinking but slowed; yet the effect is soft and inviting instead of harsh. Perhaps it is her lips that give away her intention, not quite smiling but tilting as if they mean to.
The cold stare is enough to set the other patrons edging out of harms way. When brothers look at one another like that, like all love isn't only lost but transformed to a powerful hatred, nothing good is going to happen next. Cole, eyes still locked on the man that bares his likeness, drags over a stool to sit on, his breath even yet deep. The rest of the bar is a meaningless backdrop to him, mere stage for the drama to come.
When our eyes lock over the breakfast table the soft expressions of only a few months ago have evaporated. Tabitha holds my gaze, but instead of the warmth of a lover it is with an icy hostility. I crack a joke about it all being a “strange staring contest” and she snorts, her face impassive but tilted back a little so she's literally looking down on me. After a few seconds she turns her head to the window, eyes just as still; then she speaks with the same robotic tone I've heard her use with customers at the hotel, “You have a wonderful day now, George.” And with that she makes an unnatural turn to the left that allows her gaze never to meet mine, picks up her keys and bag from the kitchen counter and leaves...
Claire's eyes were trained on some invisible spectre, her heavy eyelids a fraction too slow to blink, her irises too stationary. It was as if her brain was suffering a massive short circuit and was struggling to compute. Sal moved into her line of sight, touching her cheek with the side of his thumb, his lips forming a pensive grin. Claire's head tilted upward to his face, her eyes sliding into focus. After that the four of them lead her home like a lost child, the only noise over their soft footsteps was her repeating "He was here," over and over in a flat tone, her eyes still wide.
After the announcement Lisa's eyes were as immobile as the rest of her face, as if news like that was impossible to absorb any faster. She was frozen for maybe three whole seconds before the corners of her mouth resumed their usual softness and her eyes quit staring. She turned to the others, every part of her face in a brilliant smile, and held out her arms for a group hug.
My body sways with the movement of the train carriage, a lazy and understated rocking motion. It's times like this I wish I had brought a large book hide behind. The man opposite has quite forgotten what one can see in peripheral vision and is eyes are walking from my hair line to my feet and back up again. In short, he is staring and there seems no end to his fascination. The only time his gaze breaks is when I turn my head his way and he ruffles his daily paper, turning another page he hasn't read.
Staring has become something of an art form in this neighbourhood. The first to avert their eyes is the loser, and that means subservient, weaker. That's why my posse has it down. It isn't as simple as locking eyes and checking out, you gotta be able to back it up or at least look like you can.
I wake to find Darian in a staring contest with the dog, her quizzical expression reflected in his unmoving brown pools. With a flick of my hand a pillow takes flight in their general direction and before I've fully turned over I hear him tumble off his heels into the wooden flaw. An undignified "What?" escapes his mouth, the word misshapen at the point of impact.