Waterproof mascara
He held the slender fingers in his palm. Not as a comforting touch, but to prevent her from wiping away her tears.
There was poetry in those clear drops as they trickled down her cheek, congregating for a moment in her dimples before going their own way. It was in those fleeting moments, before they jumped off her chin towards certain tragedy, that he noticed something interesting. Through the tiny lenses on her cheek he could see a different reality. One where the up is down, and down up. And nothing was ever level because the horizon seemed to curve into itself. The thought made him smile unconsciously.
She looked up and saw - though the veil of a would-be teardrop - his amused expression.
“There he goes again”, she thought, remembering the last time that they argued. She had thought that he was being unreasonable and insensitive. He accused her of being naïve and full of new fangled ideology. They had made up only when he apologized, after watching her blow dry her hair for a whole 10 minutes with the same lost expression on his face. They had spent most of that morning forgiving each other (On the cold marble floor and against the kitchen counter). The memory made her scrunch her toes.
When she returned the smile, an errant tear found its way through her parted lips and she cringed. They were laughing now. They still held hands but things were different. They were going to be ok.
Nothing gives you more perspective than seeing the world through a teardrop.
- Hyena
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