tagRomanceHe Saw His Future in Her Eyes

He Saw His Future in Her Eyes


Once again this is not a stroke piece but a different sort of love story that deals with fate, design and a master plan.

Marti Dodson, the lead singer for the pop/rock group "Saving Jane" ---and they do know how to rock --- has penned (or co-written) a hauntingly authentic series of songs that deal with teenage female angst. The group's first hit, "Girl Next Door," is the story about a girl "in the marching band", the "girl next door" and her struggle to deal with her envy of the lucky one..."Miss America", the prom queen, senior class president, head cheerleader who "gets a whole lot more" while the girl next door "gets a little bit".

I love these kinds of songs sung by female pop singers with unique, even untrained voices. Not to be sexist but this a female genre; no one wants to hear a male pop singer whine about things. Just for the record, there is nothing whiny about Marti and her group, Saving Jane.

So, in that spirit and with memories of and apologies to that great Reba McEntire song/video, "Somebody":

...he saw his future in her eyes...

...he wonders why...searched so long...

...she was always there...all along.

This is a story about that unremarkable---at least in the world in which she exists---but indeed special girl who gets missed, overlooked ignored, pushed to the background and underestimated until that magic day when a man walks into her life who has eyes only for her...eyes that see her as unique and special and who "sees his future in her eyes".

It had been a long shift and Moira's feet where aching; as often happened on a weekend, someone bailed on their assigned shift and "good little Moira" agreed to work a double. It was a good job and she was a damn good bartender. The tips were better at the bar than waiting tables; she had a friendly smile and a willing ear and even traditionally cheap college students had the decency to be reasonably generous.

She planned to quit bar tending for awhile; her rent was paid up and she had a little savings and needed a break at least through the end of the semester which was only a few weeks away.

There weren't really many poor college students here. Moira laughed to herself as she recalled her decision to attend this upscale private university. She had been offered a full scholarship at State which included room and board. Her scholarship to this ivy clad upper crust institution covered tuition and fees but little more. It was the top school in her chosen field in the world. She had the brains, grades and test scores to be here; what she was short on was money.

She had a small handful of friends at school; most were much like her, terribly bright but decidedly middle class. She had never been invited home to one of the palatial west or east coast "compounds" of the many astoundingly wealthy families who often endowed entire buildings to get their son or daughter admitted. Some were legacies—the children of former graduates. All the money in the world wouldn't get you in here if your were completely intellectually wanting but, for those students who had failed to excel prior to college, there was always the extra lift provided by daddy's or mummy's money.

The elite seldom dated out of their "class" unless they were just looking to get laid. She'd endured a few of those overtures but had not succumbed to any of them. She had a couple of male friends from her study group, geeky, brilliant and as out of place in the social scene as she was. Through almost four years of college, she couldn't really say she'd been on a real date or had anything remotely resembling a relationship.

It was just as well; she didn't need distractions. She was only a few weeks away from graduating with a perfect Summa academic record. Her professors adored her and with most of the grade work for the current semester already submitted there was little doubt that she would graduate at the top of her class.

And then on to grad school and quite probably more time spent in her secondary career---bartending---a family business of sorts. Her father owned a bar; her mother worked there off and on as did her brother and sister. She would certainly pursue a doctorate; her field demanded that level of academic achievement. It was very doubtful that she would ever achieve any real degree of wealth in her chosen career field. Make a significant contribution to the world? Maybe...hopefully. Fame and fortune? Doubtful...maybe fame but only among a very select group of academics and researchers.

Moira was a reasonably pretty girl---certainly cute. Back home in her tiny middle America small town, she had certainly been considered cute. In the gene pool that seemed to dominate this university she was almost ordinary; perfect teeth, boobs, butts, legs, cheekbones and hair abounded. A few she suspected had already been medically enhanced.

Moira was Irish on both sides; her freckles, pale skin and flaming red locks attested to that fact. Her wide set green eyes and bright smile could light up a room. She didn't enjoy the height advantage that many of her well-heeled classmates enjoyed; she was just a hair over five-five. At the moment with beer and assorted fruit concoctions staining her somewhat formless uniform, beads of sweat breaking out on her makeup-free face and support hose and running shoes adorning her legs and feet, she was not looking or feeling "babe-like".

The bar crowd had thinned somewhat; this place was a jumping off point and many had drifted off to private parties or simply hooked up and gone off someplace to fuck. It had been a very busy shift and her body appreciated the brief respite as she perched her tired butt on the edge of a stool near the register.

She noticed him the second he came in the door. It wasn't the way he looked; it was something more. He didn't walk like a typical college student; his gait and carriage spoke of confidence but also caution.

In the short distance from the entrance to the bar, his eyes swept the room, taking in every detail. One couldn't miss the eyes---amazing blue eyes. He was dressed in modest shorts and a polo; she would have bet that he had pressed them both.

Having reviewed the scene his posture relaxed ever so slightly. Their eyes met; he smiled easily, not forced, not leering nor the typical fake smile so common in these parts. Up close, the eyes were positively captivating; she knew those eyes; she had dreamed of a man with those eyes. He moved to the bar and took the seat directly in front of her. The deep, pacific ocean blue eyes never left hers. He spoke, extending his hand as he did so.

"You look beat. I'm Jeff. I apologize for interrupting what is probably the first break you've had all night but could I trouble you for a beer?"

Moira took his hand and shook it. "Moira. What's your pleasure?"

"Something a little dark, recently tapped on draft?"

"Foreign or domestic?"


"I've got just the ticket; it's long on hops, a little bitter, more of an ale than a stout and made right up the street; I just tapped the keg."

"You read my mind!" he replied with a grin; it was an easy, warm, safe, comforting grin.

Moira always chatted with her customers; it was part of the reason she was considered the best bartender in the joint. It also made her the top tip earner. Sliding the frosted pint across the bar, she engaged.

"I don't recall ever seeing you in here before and I never forget a face."

"You're very perceptive, Moira. How long have you been here---at the university, I mean?"

"I'm a senior and I started in the summer, so just shy of four years."

"I left here just about four years ago and the last bartender I remember standing where you are was...old Arnie?"

"The owner! He somewhat retired from the 'front office' but he stops by occasionally."

"Well, Arnie was---is---one of my favorite people in the world, and don't tell him I said this but you are a marked improvement over the old bastard. I'm sorry I missed him but I'm really happy to have met you."

Was he flirting or just making conversation? "So where have you been for the last four years?"

"Fulfilling my military obligation."

"Were you in the reserves? 'Got called up? Last time I checked, we haven't had a draft in a few years."

"None of the above, actually. I volunteered; the tragedy that occurred almost five years ago forced me to explore my values and figure out what was really important. The last four years has been a learning experience; I have no regrets but now I'm done with that and it's time to get on with life."

"This is an odd time to show up; it's the middle of the semester."

"Moira, four days ago I was riding in a Humvee on route Michigan in Ramadi, al Anbar province, Iraq. I didn't really get to pick the departure date."

"I see; so what are your plans...what year were you when you left?"

"I had completed my course work for my doctorate but hadn't submitted my dissertation. The university has been very cooperative since I've basically had to do correspondence work as time permitted over the last four years. The department is pretty much done reviewing my submission; I'll be meeting with a number of professors over the next couple of weeks---sort of informal orals---and then if all goes well, I'll graduate---the same time you will!"

"How's it looking---the dissertation, I mean?"

"It's good; it's damn good. It's also decidedly radical but irrefutable."

It hadn't been braggadocio or false confidence. It had been a statement of fact.

"And your field is...?"

Jeff told her; she grinned. It was a field of study not that far removed from her own. She told him of her plans and aspirations. Another patron needed attention; she prayed that Jeff would still be there when she got done. She kept him in sight out of the corner of her eye. He was following her every move with his eyes. That was a good sign...wasn't it?

They renewed their conversation; she told him why she had chosen her field and asked him why he had chosen his.

"I became fascinated with it in the seventh grade; I sent off for every free lit piece I could find from the government, universities---wherever. I did a series of science projects in high school, each a more advanced iteration of the previous one but all the same subject. In my senior year, I won a national competition—which included a scholarship to this august institution.

"I got a research grant from the corporate world to continue my work at the graduate level. I never technically got a masters and at some point I'm positive that the university stopped sending me tuition bills...if they ever started. In any event I was turning into the university's personal lab rat and needed a break. Most who attend here would probably have chosen Oxford or the Sorbonne---I was offered those opportunities---I chose the Marine Corps. And that's probably more than Moira wanted to know."

"Not at all; yours is not the typical story around here. I can't remember the last time I heard anyone mention the military in a favorable light and ROTC was kicked out long before I got here."

"My actions certainly raised some eyebrows. But all appears to be forgiven. I've even been offered a faculty position; I doubt that I'll take it but one never knows. Now I'm your only customer; I want to know everything there is to know about Moira." And his gentle smile said he really meant it.

Moira gave Jeff her life story in abridged format; he hung on her every word.

"School teachers," he said after she had finished her short saga.

"Pardon me?"

"My parents...both were and are life long school teachers. My sister is a school teacher as is my older brother."

"Sort of like my 'family business'."

"I like teaching but I don't know...I have offers, as I mentioned. I enjoy research but not just for the sake of research. I want to do something, create something. In my field, we agonize and study and test---but too often we never produce a 'product'---a result that does anyone any real good."

"How do you go about that?"

"Sell your soul, too often; allow the evil corporate America mongers to possess you. Accept their filthy money so that others can become obscenely rich. And maybe, just maybe, what you accomplish makes the world a better place. I have offers from the Dark Side also."

The bar would close in a few minutes. It was well past midnight. "I don't even know your last name," Moira commented.

"Taylor. Jeff Taylor and yours is...?"

"Feeney. Moira Feeney; pleased to meet you, Jeff Taylor!" Moira said, mustering every vestige of flirtation she could find in her tired body. Moira didn't flirt...hadn't since...fourth grade? She hoped her effort didn't come across as completely feeble.

"Moira, I haven't enjoyed talking to someone as much as I've enjoyed chatting with you in a long time---ever. I know you're beat and I'm still on Ramadi time; I need to crash as I'm sure you do. Having said that, and since you realize that I am seconds away from getting off this bar stool and heading out the door...one last thing."

He paused; he smiled, then spoke, putting his hand on hers. "You have the most amazingly beautiful green eyes I've ever seen in my life. Your smile fills the room...and takes my breath away. I really want to get to know you...and vice versa. Is there any chance that could happen?"

Moira was speechless; she wordlessly scribbled her phone number on the back of his credit card receipt. "I'm not working tomorrow---I'm not coming near this place! As a matter of fact since my rent's paid up, I was given serious thought to quitting...at least for a while...till next year if... I'm going to sleep in; call me after eleven?"

"Thank you."

"Jeff, have you found an apartment yet? Where are you staying?"

"I am currently the guests of one of my former professors and research collaborators. I actually own a house in town---but it's rented out through the end of the semester which may be a moot point if I decide not to stay. In any event, I've got a list of potential short terms and sublets that I'm going to explore over the next couple of days; finding a place in the middle of a semester has it's challenges."

"I'll ask around; maybe I can help."

"Great! Tomorrow then?"

"Absolutely!" And he was gone as if he had never existed.

A half an hour later at home in her single apartment---her roommate had moved out the first week of the semester to move in with a boyfriend but fortunately had paid the nonrefundable rent in advance---Moira could not get Jeff Taylor's face out her mind.

Jeff was cute; he was more than cute, he was a hunk. She had not failed to notice several of the rich bitches still in the bar checking him out and attempting to chat him up on their excessive trips to the powder room. He could have scored with any one of them; he was a man, not a boy.

He had not tried to pick her up to fuck her. He wanted to get to know her. Surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous leggy, busty women with better bank accounts than Moira would ever have, he had spent the entire time talking to her...paying attention to her...and he loved her green eyes and her smile.

It had to be too good to be true. Handsome men about to receive their doctorates, men who had a bright future ahead of them, men like Jeff did not notice Moira Feeney...did they? Moira was a practical and grounded girl. She knew she wasn't unattractive nor was she in the league of the majority of the female students at the university.

She had a decent body which few ever saw; her breasts were small but respectable. She had a damn nice little ass and she rode her bicycle everywhere so fat was not remotely an issue. Her hair was...well, her hair. She didn't do anything with it; she kept it cut short and let it air dry. She wasn't sure she even owned a lip stick. She had rationalized at first that he just wanted to be friends...but friends don't notice a girl's eyes...or their smile...do they?

Her fingers strayed to that special place. For the first time in longer than she could remember she came, not with the vision of some celebrity cheesecake but with the clear image of a man she had just met...a man she had touched...a man who had told her that her smile took his breath away....and that her eyes were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.


Would he call? When would he call? What would they do? Where would they go? What should she wear? Moira was a grownup; she was mature beyond her years---in most areas. In affairs of the heart she was...well, back in high school praying that a certain boy would ask her to the prom...crushed when he didn't do so.

Moira hadn't been a wall flower in high school but she certainly had not been center stage. She was on the flag squad but not a cheerleader; she dated but not with the "high caliber" prospects. She was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" but not cutest, best dancer or whatever.

For almost four years her social life---and certainly her sex life---had been nonexistent. The only reason she even bothered to trim her pubic hair was because she rode a bicycle, played tennis and swam. Moira Feeney was the classic girl next door; she was honest, loyal, and caring.

She was showered and dressed before eleven. It was a warm spring day. She had chosen a sun dress which made her legs look longer and gave one a hint of her quite respectable tush. It also made her breasts look larger than their marginal B plus.

The phone rang at one minute after eleven. They agreed that lunch made sense; she gave him directions to where she lived. He laughed; he was staying only a few blocks away. There was a place he had enjoyed out in the country. She had never been there but had heard of it; it was supposed to be excellent but expensive. He was ready whenever she was; he'd pick her up in fifteen minutes.

He drove a pickup truck, very big and absolutely spotless. She walked out to meet him. He came toward her dressed in similar attire to the night before. The awkward moment...how to greet...known each other less than twenty-four hours...wordlessly their arms went around each other and they kissed...a kiss that lasted far longer than either had planned.

They could not know at that instant that neither of them would ever kiss another human being romantically for the rest of their lives. It was at that moment that each saw their futures in the other's eyes...they just didn't know it yet...or couldn't accept the impossible reality. But neither would ever forget that kiss; they would both recall it over the years and grow misty eyed.

Jeff had noticed Moira the instant he set foot in the bar. The odd thing was he somehow knew she was there...had gone there looking for her, not Arnie---not a girl named Moira Feeney---but the girl...the girl he had seen in his dreams. The girl whose picture he had drawn on construction paper with colored markers in the seventh grade. As he examined the picture which he had carried with him almost constantly for over fifteen years, his body trembled.

He'd never known anyone who looked like her; the picture had been drawn exclusively from dream and memory. For most of the four years he had been gone, she had been standing behind that bar five nights a week. It used to be the only bar he went to; he spent easily five nights a week sitting at that bar with friends, colleagues and professors. She had started working there three days after he had left for the Marines.

Moira slid to the center and tucked her little butt against Jeff's hip. She put her hand on his arm and let her head rest on his shoulder. The kiss had taken her breath away. He was smiling. What was he thinking? In spite of her practical nature all she could think about was him...he was the one...she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.

She knew those eyes...had dreamed about them since she had been twelve years old. Her man had those eyes. Jeff had those eyes. They spoke little over the twenty minute drive to the restaurant just outside of town.

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byDinsmore© 22 comments/ 54711 views/ 38 favorites

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