Windows to the soul

Do you remember that afternoon in the hotel in Brighton? I hated you that afternoon but I wanted you so badly. What a peculiar paradox. I remember the cloud, the remainder of the argument and the fact that I hated you, didn't want you near me and then suddenly I was pinned underneath you, bound by your arms and legs and being fucked by you whether I wanted it or not. But don't worry, my little rapist, I did, I did want it. "This will teach you to fuck me about!" you shouted, breathlessly, as you pounded me with your fists and held me down with your knees. "You say you hate me, you tell me never to come near you ever again and then you look at me with those eyes." What a strange thing to say, I thought, looking at you through the eyes you spoke of as if I had a choice.

My eyes were a problem. One night inside a tent made of sheets and our own condensation, it was black but you told me that you could see the whites of my eyes... "Bewitching" you called them. That word again, like I was a sprite or somehow otherwise otherworldly. You often said that our babies would have beautiful eyes, the green-blue of yours and the ice grey of mine combining in this fantasy child with beautiful green eyes. Sometimes you told me that I had "fuck me" eyes, that my eyes looking over the top of my glasses were irresistible. Sometimes you accused my eyes of being cold, told me that they changed colour depending on my mood and that when I was angry with you they were darker in a reflection of my mood. I was never in control of my eyes, they were far less windows to my soul than they were windows to yours, showing you what you wanted to see.