It’s possible there are elements of exaggeration here. I'm not sure. Forget the scene. We'll come back to it. Who initiates eye-contact? How does one measure in the space which two things meet, which met first? Is there an element of magnetism here? Did I compel her eyes to mine? Her eyes, mine to hers'? I can’t remember the moment we mutually committed to this look. Or, before that, who thought first to look. Do I not remember because she thought first? Or have I simply forgotten, looking at her? What do I remember at all? Years are blank spaces. Perceptual memories suggesting events. Somewhere. A room. Something. Someone. Images with names. Images without. There are places I could lend descriptions to, but what’s the point? I could say water here, there a hill, somewhere a copse of trees. Clouds leak like water through a bed sheet. Winds dress in snow, slithering. Moon a chewed off fingernail above, the milky iridescence of it. What am I describing? She is looking at me. And she blinks, twice, very quickly. As though trying to remind me of something. None of that is here anymore, so what am I describing? Relations? Homogeny? Or am I infused in some ether? Stuck halfway between what’s real, and the rest? The rest being mental vapors. A vaporized image of reality, evaporated some time ago and already metastasized. None of that is here anymore. Or is none of this here anymore? Which is coming, and what has gone? It’s difficult to tell anymore. Time goes on. She goes on looking. Has gone on. Will go on. I can’t remember where all of this began anymore. Somewhere I had to have woken up. Somewhere. A room. Something. Someone. Relations. Homogeny. Years are blank spaces. But before there were years, were there blank spaces? I can’t remember where all of this began anymore: a blank space. Black pupils. Curved reflections on the cornea. A replication of me over a water-filmed aperture. The all-too-real look of an all-too-real human being looking at you. What compelled her to look? When, why? Forget it. Maybe it’s already been forgotten. Or was it never really remembered? Who can tell? Her eyes are brown. And oval, and wet. She has a face, is smiling. I’m smiling. I'm not sure of this, but, for what it's worth, one can guess. The moment is already evaporating. Has long since been. And she blinks, again.