Gypsy Eyes

Her eyes were the window to her soul. Her eyes expressed more than she ever could with her words. Her eyes told me everything I needed to know about her, and so very much more.

They were the deepest of greens. Forest Green in the box of Crayola. Green like a forest during a rainy day; the overcast sky revealing none of their illustrious shine. Her eyes held not even the slightest traces of any color besides green.

They had a distinct crinkle around the edges when she smiled and really meant it. Her smile reached her eyes, as they say. When she was sad, they glinted with forced back tears, shining brightly in the light. Her eyes turned to solid stone when she angered. Hard as the gem stone they mirrored. Her eyes could hold a burning flame of passion, pulling you in, holding you captive.

Oh, but when she laughed. She threw back her wild mane of thick, black corkscrews, and she would laugh. A hearty laugh, one from her gut. A devil-may-care laugh. She'd smile wide, her luscious lips framing her gorgeous overbite. The overbite that pushed her bottom lip out into tantalizing territory. That laugh reached her eyes like nothing else could. Her eyes lit up with joy, sparkled with love, and glittered with amusement, but when she laughed, oh, they came alive. Her eyes took over her face. Her sleek jaw, her strong chin, her high cheekbones, her upturned nose, faded in the glory of her laughing eyes.

She had a wild spirit. She was care free, fun, passionate. Her life was built around solid spontaneity. She carefully guarded herself with in-the-moment decisions and carefully thought out mind-changing. She was a wild woman. Never lived in the same place twice. Never lived in the same kind of place twice. She was always running. She never told me why.

She was larger than life, but she was such a small thing. She barely reached my shoulder, but the passion and flame she held within her was absolutely awe inspiring. She was a wild gypsy woman, living here and there, leaving a trail of lovers behind, and plenty of impressions.

I met her when she came into my shop. She decided she wanted a bit of furniture for her new home, she said. She liked the wooden dresser. She placed her hand on mine, and told me it was a shame. When I asked her what she meant, she held up my wedding band. Amazed, I checked my hand, to be sure. I hadn't felt it leave my finger. She winked at me and slid it back on my finger. Her eyes danced with laughter and amusement. It was that moment I fell in love.

Her eyes. Oh, such eyes. I wanted to capture them forever. Store them away for myself. I didn't want another man to look at those eyes. I didn't want those eyes to look at another man. She flashed me a brilliant smile before she left me there, in love and out a pricy wooden dresser she hadn't paid for. She had stolen the dresser while I was distracted. I don't know how she did it, and I never asked. I didn't care. I wanted those eyes. I wanted to see them in the throes of passion, in the heat of the moment, in the angry moments and even the heartbreaking moments. I wanted her.

She came back every other day while she lived in Manhattan. She lived there for a year. In one year, I saw her many looks. I saw the burning anger, the sorrow, the dancing joy, the amused laughter. I saw the passion, too. Beneath me, her wild hair strewn across the pillow, her eyes smoldering with passion and lust. Her full, red lips bruised and worn from a long attack of kisses. While she drifted off to sleep in my arms, the guilt of what I had done to my wife wracked my body. I didn't sleep that night, but when that woman awoke and pinned those green, green eyes on me, I couldn't bring myself to regret my choice. I kissed her long and good. I had her thrashing beneath me from just my kisses. The satisfaction and pleasure I gained from that single moment, was priceless.

She left town two weeks later. I haven't seen her since. But every year, on the anniversary of that night, I find a gem stone in my office. A glittering green jewel, to remind me. Of what, I don't know. The passion? The lust? The whole hearted moment of surrender? I remember the eyes. The eyes that bared her very core to me for just one night. For one night I saw her weaknesses, her strengths, her dreams, her desires. I saw her. I saw those eyes, so full of emotion. So knowing. So alive. Those glittering, green eyes.

I never even got her name.