"Eyes Like The Afternoon Sun"

And if I was honest with myself, I would admit just how much I care about him.

He stares at the page, eyebrows high upon his forehead. He shoots a glance her way. She is still wrapped up in reading his chapter of the week, pen tapping idly when not underlining passages or jotting notes. He turns back to the page before him.

Initially, he had said they should meet up to look over each other’s writings simply so he could spend more time with her. She writes all sorts of things — essays, articles, short stories, poetry, novels, songs, children’s books. Nothing published, but plenty of material to refine and submit. He himself did have a half-finished novel that he wasn’t sure what to do with, so there was some actual purpose to their weekly writer’s dates. He didn’t think anything would really come of it at the time.

Now, however, he sits across from her with her first-ever published poetry book — which he had purchased himself, thank you very much — while she finishes revising his second to last chapter. He isn’t sure whether or not he should interrupt her, but the question feels as if it’s burning inside him. That line had not been in the draft he read.

“Who is this about?” he asks finally, unable to continue reading.

She blinks up at him, brows furrowed, as though she had forgotten he was there.

“What?”

“This.” He points to the two lines on the page. “Who is it about?”

Her brows furrow again as she peers across the table. She shakes her head.

“I can’t tell which one that is,” she says. “Probably no one.”

“And if I was honest with myself, I would admit just how much I care about him,” he reads aloud. He looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “It’s about someone; who?”

She makes a face, her cheeks pink. Then again, her cheeks are usually pink. It’s not much to go by.

“Who says it has to be about anyone?”

He closes the book on his fingers and points to the subtitle with his other hand.

“It literally says ‘A Collection of Experiences’.”

“Well, who says they’re my experiences?” she shoots back with a grin, only it’s a little too wistful for him to truly believe her.

“It’s implied.” He gives her a look, to let her know that he’s not buying whatever she’s trying to do to avoid the question, and she scowls.

“Well, who is this about?”

She points to a paragraph, which appears untouched by her pen. He leans over to read the passage. It’s the love declaration from the main character, and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realizes he forgot to edit it to be more like the love interest in the story.

“Michelle, the love interest?” It comes out as a question. She shakes her head.

“It is not.” She holds up a finger. “First of all, Michelle's eyes are green, not ‘like the late afternoon sun’, whatever that means. Second, it doesn’t fit her character at all! Half the stuff written isn’t mentioned about her in the book!”

“Fine!” He startles them both with his outburst, voice much louder than he had intended. They glance around the coffee shop quickly, but no one appears to have noticed them.

“Fine,” he says again, much quieter. “I’ll tell you who it’s about if you tell me who yours is about.”

Her cheeks are very pink — much pinker than usual — and he wonders who could possibly be making her that flustered. He’s sure he is similarly colored as his face feels very warm. However, he has thought a lot about telling her that he likes her, and decides that at least he’ll know where she stands afterwards. Maybe then he can finally move on.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“I —” She clears her throat, tries again. “I — you first.”

He stares at her again, trying to decide if he should push for her or man up and confess. He shifts nervously. The sunlight he had been blocking for her splashes across her face, highlighting her freckles and making her amber eyes more golden.

“Don’t move,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow as he pulls out his phone. Her other brow joins the first one as he holds the phone as close to her as possible without blocking the sun. He snaps several pictures.

“What on earth are you doing?” she asks finally as he pulls back. He flips through the pictures until he finds the best one and shows it to her.

“That’s what it means,” he says. She looks from the picture on his phone to him and then back to the close up of her eye.

“What what means?”

“‘Eyes like the late afternoon sun’,” he quotes. “That’s what it means.”

Her eyes widen as understanding blooms across her features. He gazes at her steadily. She inhales sharply and then the corners of her mouth twitch up ever so slightly. His own face quirks up in a soft smile.

“Mine was about you, too.”