Eyes Meet

It only took a moment for entire lifetimes to flash before his eyes.

Here he was, sitting at the hotel bar, mindlessly stirring his drink. There she was, just coming through the lobby doors with her friends, dressed for a night on the town. Their eyes met.

In that moment, that fraction of a second, he is no longer himself. Or, more accurately, he is no longer the version of himself he knows. He is sitting at a quaint breakfast table in a modest house. A newspaper is open in front of him, held by his own hands. A sharp ding; the toast is ready. He folds the newspaper, sets it down on the table, and looks up as his wife sets the plate before him. Her eyes.

He is walking down a bustling street as huge black cars amble by. The briefcase in his right hand hangs next to his thigh, swinging as his feet carry him forward. His feet know the way; he is relieved. This is as familiar as it is strange - he was just at the bar, just in the kitchen, how did he get here? His feet propel him across the street, down one more block, up a set of stone stairs. He is in a bank. Still, his legs are moving, carrying him forward. Men nod, their mouths are moving, they're speaking to him. He is responding. What is he saying? His hand reaches for a doorknob, and he is in an office. His office. He catches his reflection in the large window. Who is this man? He only recognizes his eyes; the rest is different. As he sits down at his desk and opens his briefcase, there is a knock at the door. The doorknob turns, and a woman enters, her face turned down toward a stack of folders in her arms. She is talking a mile a minute as she places the folders in different metal organizers around the room. Her hair is pinned delicately away from her face. She places the last folder and asks him a question, looking up to meet his gaze. Those eyes.

The office has vanished, and he is seated at a small table in a dark room. There is a drink in front of him; he begins to stir the ice as he looks around the room. A light comes on, and he sees a stage. He is in a cabaret theater. Slowly, the rest of the audience comes into view around him. The theater is small and dark, it smells of cigarette smoke and sweat. He is sitting alone. A low hum rattles deep within his chest as the music starts, a deep, low piano melody. A woman walks out on stage. She is provocatively dressed, her hair tousled about her face, down her shoulders. He takes a sip of his drink as she turns his direction.

The sun beats down on his skin. He is outside, and he is small. Smaller than he was a moment ago, when he was drinking at the hotel bar, when he was sitting at the kitchen table, when he was walking through the bank lobby, when he was enjoying the show. The trees tower over him as he looks around. He is a child. He is a child, and he is running through the high grass of a wide field. He is laughing. Across the field, he sees a small house - a cabin, really. In the other direction, he sees sheep, he sees hills. He sees another cabin. His foot betrays him as he runs, encountering a rock, and he tumbles to the ground. He is still laughing as another child falls on top of him. She is laughing too, a sweet laugh that reminds him of windchimes. He untangles himself from the young girl and brushes himself off. As he reaches to help her to her feet, he sees her.

He is in a bed. A young woman moves quickly around the small room, draping blankets across his feet. She brings him a tray and sets it on his lap. He recognizes his favorite soup, set next to a small piece of hard bread and a potato on a small plate. As he reaches for the food, he notices the wrinkles on his hand. He takes in the blue veins showing through his thin skin; he is old. In this moment, he realizes that he is not alone. His right side is warmed by another. He is sharing this bed. Slowly, he exhales, closes his eyes, and leans back against the pillows. His right hand reaches over and finds hers, his old fingers wrapping around her thin hand. He relishes this moment, breathes it in. He feels her reach over and pat the back of his bony hand as he holds her. Turning toward her, he opens his eyes.

Here he is, sitting at the hotel bar, mindlessly stirring his drink. And here she is, just coming through the lobby doors with her friends, dressed for a night on the town. Their eyes meet.