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What colour are my eyes? by Louisa Bello
 

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  • I found him on the beach. He sat, fully clothed, legs ajar with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, ash dropping sullenly, almost petulantly into the faded crotch of his blue jeans. His eyes were a-glaze, his RayBans askew and he hadn’t seemed to notice me sitting down beside him.

    It was night. Behind us a mescla of Reggaeton tunes blared from various speakers, set outside the rows and rows of cocktail shacks at the side of the beach, all selling cheap and strong and just how we liked to drink. The sky was jet and pinpricked with stars and the night felt as though it were stretched before us like the yellow brick road. The thought of it glistened dangerously for me like the drool of a savage dog only metres between me and safety.

    We had been at the beach for 3 days and it was clear to me we should be staying for a while longer. Had I known about the length of our stay I would have brought a clean pair of tights. These ones seemed to be falling away at the seams literally and I could see the bruises from our fight this morning, stained green through the blood red ladders crisscrossing my sunburnt knees.

    Finally, he blinked. I caught a glimpse of a shadow upon his cheek made from the flicker of his lashes, lashes which now glowed neon from the luminance of the clubs and bars of this party town behind us.

    "Wanna go back in? There’s a wicked DJ on in a bit? "His irritating silence answered plain as the sneer on his lips.

    "I can’t just leave you here! It’s killing me. Come with me".
    Unexpectedly he turned to me. Expectedly, I jumped. "What colour are my eyes?" He asked.

    Surprised by the sound of his voice and which I hadn’t heard since he called me a whore this morning after finding me in bed with the boy he had wanted, I hesitated before answering. That was enough for him.

    "Leave me alone. I’m going home. You just made up my mind for me. Reality bites".

    "Oh come on, don’t be like that! You didn’t give me a chance to explain this morning. I thought we were friends? Friends don’t treat each other like this! Friends don’t leave each other in the middle of a foreign beach, alone and abused…" I had chosen my last verb carefully.

    He grabbed my arms with both hands (and which were surprisingly cold for the warmth of the night) and turned me to face him and look directly into my eyes.

    “Alone and abused! You are pitiful and now surplus!

    Aroused, I swallowed a string of rising mockeries and held my breath in my throat, so as not to tarnish his beautifully martyred face, so very pretty in this moment. I momentarily closed my eyes and imagined the roughness of his tongue on my cheek. I could see the street lamp behind me reflected within the darks of his eyes, but as I stared and I squinted, as I tried, I couldn’t make out their colour.
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