Eyes for Her

My attention is drawn back to the blue hookah that has been the centerpiece of the picnic table for the last hour. I get lost in the familiar color for moments at a time, and the surrounding noises melt away. Just shy of a year now since I had last seen that hue. My mind is yanked back to Breakwater Way. I can feel the Oceanside sun beaming down on my back. I feel his warm skin grab ahold of my hand; I let myself sink into the memory. I feel the heat pressed up against the back of my thighs from the concrete ledge we had taken our places on. Salt is in the air as the hundreds of locals and vacationers are on the beach, enjoying their summer day. I feel the smile being forced upon my face, my sad attempt at looking hopeful. I feel the dread pitted in my stomach. I feel the Oceanside sun beaming down my back again.

I take notice of the chills that stiffen the left side of my neck. I am pulled back to the unwelcoming and all too familiar heat of the middle east. Noticing the fresh set of eyes on me, discomfort and a panic sprint down my spine. The sun had set nearly 3 full hours ago, but the temperature never dropped below 110 degrees. The other 3 picnic tables positioned near the make-shift sand volleyball pit are now occupied with fellow Marines and sailors, with soldiers from the Italian army scattered about, some talking loudly and chain-smoking stogies. Some with their eyes fixed on me, in ways hungrier than I ever appreciate. When I see the hazel peering through the brilliantly dark lashes, I see the colors of all the eyes that have studied me in such ways. Although, his are particularly beautiful with the deep contrast of his skin; with the way they haven't hurt me yet. I had turned my attention to my friends when I felt the panic slipping back into my lungs. Only for a second did the soldier turn his surveillance away from me to exchange smug smiles and a head-nod in my direction with a comrade. He mirrored me as I stood; my heart jumped.

I feel a bead of sweat roll down my ribcage with a familiar intimacy; I'm taken back to a barstool in Bettys Fish House. The sound of light traffic is shadowing the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore. His honey brown eyes, which were even sweeter with the sunlight kissing them like that, were caressing my body as gently as the fingers that were running up and down the tops of my hands. Finally, he met my gaze and told me, assuredly, "This is the moment I'm going to think of. Whether it be just months from now." I saw the realization run across his face but pretended I didn't. "Or much later, in my last thoughts will be this moment. Right here, on this barstool across from you, with the sunlight hitting our hands and arms just like this." I see the tears well up in his eyes; I watch one roll down his cheek, slowly, intimately. These will be our last moments.

It's the taste of dirt on my lips that brings me back to the desert. I find myself half running out of panic, trying to hide from his stare. My legs led me to a damp restroom that is only illuminated by the full moon that intently observes me through the window. Watching as I sink down to my knees and open my chest to make more room for air. -It's interesting recalling those eyes. Remembering what they have all done to me, what they have all watched and seen in my own as they took my power away. Each in whatever way they saw fit. I am an object, something beautiful like a blue hookah, filled with paranoia and vulnerability. The moon is still there; she watches me as I count my breaths. She holds space for me while I let my mind wander somewhere safer.