Some boy approaching eighteen years of age fortunately casts his eyes upon a girl who most wouldn’t give a second glance to. Who is she, he thinks. Where can he see her again, he thinks, when her eyes flit to his and then flit away again.
Flowing sable hair which hasn’t touched conditioner. Wide glasses with a crooked frame and gold-flaked dots on the sides. Eyes which border on obsidian or black coffee. She makes brief eye contact with him again, but averts her gaze. One can never peer too closely into the windows of others’ souls.
He is particularly enamoured with her sense of repression, suppression, intelligence. Fine qualities he has been pursuing for a while. The girl continues to walk, and seems to have forgotten his presence.
Ah, he forgot to ask her for a coffee date.
It was the eyes.
I don’t know anything anymore