The Man Whose Eyes Never Tire

6...

     It is now two days before the beginning of my last year of highschool. I woke up to a horrid pain in my eye, assuming I had something stuck in it. I walk to my bedroom mirror, shining my phone’s flashlight into it in search of the culprit. To my sadness, I find nothing, and notice the pain present no matter what I do; eye open, eye closed, looking up, to the side, down, just constant pain. Upon research, I discover that I likely have a scratch on my eye, and I recall the night before I had woken up to this pain; I struggled to get my contact lens out, thus likely causing a friction burn. Regardless, I panic, and as my mother is out for the day, she speaks to a pharmacist who asks a few questions about my eye.
    “He said that because it isn’t red, we should be worried,” My mom informed me, sending a wave of horrible panic through me. I spent the day laying outside, attempting to ignore the pain, texting Mark to relax my soul.
    Despite the pain that I was in, I made certain to take in the luxury of my last few days of break. Here I lay, on the beige-khaki swing bench, swaying with the gentle summer breeze with a beer posing before me. The sky is blue like the ocean, a sparse, gentle lingering of clouds acting as little boats floating away at peace. The sun is glowing; not too hot, the breeze; not too cold, just comfortable. I adore the summer; I lay in peace, burdened by my eye.
    As the day goes on, Mark tells me that he is starting to get ready for hockey season - such a boy, I tease to myself - and that he wants to get back in shape for himself, for me, and for us. I feel so warm at him referring to this interaction as an ‘us’; flattered that he wants to look good for me, just as I want to look good for him.
     In harmony with our usual occurrences, Mark begins to speak of lust, and all the things he wants to do to me when we meet alone. As much as I adore his attention, I am in far too much pain to keep rambling about sex with Mark. I want him to be caring to me right now. For my debut of a backbone, I politely tell him that I am not overly in the mood for that conversation, and explain to him my troubles for the day, and my worry in regards to what the pharmacist said. His response tattooed itself in my mind and in my heart, recognizing that at long last, I have a man who truly cares for me. Maybe he loves me. Close your eyes. Think about the one that hurts. Feel me gently giving you a kiss on your eyelid, then feel me kiss your lips. You are going to be okay.
I am going to be okay.

     The next day, my eye is still in pain, but much better than the day prior; I start to relax, but still cannot wear my contact lenses. Mark asks to see me with glasses, and I tell him it is an awful sight; it makes me feel like I used to, when I was just an ugly duckling. He persists, telling me I always look beautiful and could not possibly look bad. I show him, and he tells me he loves it; he thinks I look sexy.
    As I finish getting ready, Brooke texts me, asking if I wanted to go back-to-school shopping with her. I warn her that I look awful - wearing my glasses - and she tells me that I am ridiculous, and that she is on her way. It is a rainy day; my favourite variant of weather, for as always, I am married to melancholy. 
    Brooke leads the way through the mall, as I am aware of how broke I am, and that I truly do not have much money to spend. Brooke selects a few pairs of pants - black, leather pants, and some dress pants - as well as a sweater. I wait for her outside of the changing room, sat upon a round, pink, cushioned stool, holding both of our purses. I recognize my chance to text Mark, and I tell him all about being out with my friend shopping. He tells me to show him everything I buy, and I promise him that I will. He asks me what I thought about while I applied my lipstick this morning - our rule! Feeling shy, I told him I thought about him kissing my lips. Good girl, he says, and I feel myself blush as I turn my phone off and look at Brooke, showing me her pants, and asking for my opinion on them. I tell her they look great; the only thought on my mind is of how much Mark cares about me, and how much attention he pays to me. 
    Brooke pays for the items she wants, and we continue dancing our way through stores in the mall, laughing at price tags and analysing every item. Eventually, still empty handed, I come across some white, thigh-high socks with little bows at the top. I think about Lolita, and how I feel like her when I am thinking about Mark - I am constantly thinking about Mark.
    “Those are so cute, Julie,” Brooke says to me, noticing the socks I am analysing. “You have to get them.” I do as Brooke says, and buy them; imagining wearing them for Mark, his big, strong, masculine hands grazing up and down my thighs, grabbing, squeezing and tugging on them while I look up into his eyes and tell him about my day atop his couch.
    In Brooke’s car, we sing along to Santana, watching the rain cascade down and splash into a million smaller droplets on the windshield. “I want to introduce you to someone,” She says to me as she pulls into the parking lot of a hospice.
   “Wait a minute, is this the hospice where your mom died?” I ask her, my eyes shooting wide open as I gape at the beige hospice building.
     “Yeah, I want to introduce you to my father figure,” she says with a bittersweet smile on her face.
     The car parks, and I stare at her; my jaw wide open. “This is the hospice that my grandfather just died in a few weeks ago,” I tell her, and we are both stunned by the coincidence.
    We enter the building and venture up the elevator to the hospice. She leads me to the room her mom used to stay in, and adding to the coincidence, I show her the room that was my grandfathers: One room down. As we wait for her father figure - Shawn - to appear, we sit at a table and sip at our coffee that we had fetched before arriving. We wait for a hefty portion of time, and I remain in an eerie daze, remembering that just weeks prior, my grandfather had been in this building, alive. I think about his life ending in this building. A fog of melancholy drifts over me once more. 
   At last, Shawn appears, and gives me a large hug. He tells me that he has heard plenty about me, and is pleased to meet me. For hours upon hours, Brooke, Shawn and I all visit; telling tales of our own lives, and Brooke even began to show off one of my performances to Shawn - how flattering! We got onto the topic of fathers; Brooke explained that she was planning to reach out to her father for the first time in months, and I explained that I just ended a large fight with mine. It felt therapeutic to talk about this out loud, to hear another man telling me that my fathers behaviour was ridiculous and uncalled for. At last, we said our goodbyes, and I bid my farewell to the hospice, understanding that this would be the last time I stepped foot in the place my grandfather took his last breath.

    Arriving home, I slipped upstairs and tried on my new, white, knee high socks. They fit like a glove, and instantly gave a school-girl essence to my appearance. I sat down on my red bed, posing my legs like the cover of Lolita: my knees together, feet apart, making my legs look frail, tiny, and young. I retrieved my phone and took a photo of my posed legs and sent the photo to both Jason and Mark. They both adored the photo.
    I meander down stairs, turn the knob of my glass backyard door framed by white wood, and sit back down on the swing bench, naturally letting my legs adopt the same pose I assumed in my bedroom. The air was chill once more; the hint of fall presenting itself with a crisp, fresh lick. As I sucked on my vape, feeling the fruity vapour expand my lungs like an internal hug, I gently closed my eyes and let my thoughts approach me as I exhaled the vapour from within me. I thought about Mark. The only thing I could ever think about was Mark. I wonder if he is thinking about me this much as well.
      Now as nightfall has struck, and I am relaxing in my own bed, Mark begins to text me once more; the only notification I ever wait for. I tell him that school is starting tomorrow, and that I am worried about the beginning of this year - my final year. I let myself cave to Mark, expressing all my troubles, speaking openly about school. I think back to when I was only twelve or thirteen, talking to nineteen and twenty year-olds online, always telling them I was older, and refraining from ever mentioning school so as to not reveal my age to them; now, I feel blissful in telling Mark about school. I like feeling like his little schoolgirl. I am terrified by how much I adore the disgusting parameters of our situation.
     As I lay here tonight, my phone lights up with Mark’s name. Would you like to be my girlfriend?
    I stare, incapable of blinking, at his message sprawled across my screen. He truly wants me. He is not just filling his time with me due to boredom. He is not just trying to get a good review on his restaurant and customer service. He wants me. 
     I know that this is my fantasy come true; a dream meeting reality. I know how beautiful this would feel; I know the bliss I could bask in of being involved in something so gorgeously wrong. I know the tragic beauty of how dark this would be. I know I need to accept it. I know I want to accept; to fall into his arms each and every day with a kiss, explaining in vast detail how each day has been; confiding in him with my troubles for each day. Despite this burning desire within me, however, I recognize my fear of the situation: I have only been speaking to him for three days; how could he already want me? He could be dangerous; horribly dangerous. The type of dangerous that makes headlines, causing millions to shake their heads at the cruelty of the world. With the angel and the devil resting tauntingly upon my shoulders, I simply tell Mark that I would love to, but I am just not entirely ready for the labels yet, as our age worries me. I made it clear that I did not deny this yet.
     You know I liked you before I knew how old you were, he tells me.
     I know, it’s just a little spooky:) But it isn’t a no! I just need some time, is all:) I responded.
    Are you worried about the age gap?
    No, of course not. I love it.
    Good. Me too.
    I wonder if, one day, I will look back at this decision with regret, as I lie without him by my side; never having been his. I wonder if this was a mistake.