by M. Blake

Twisted up in memories, the sheets no longer exist. Twenty years could have been twenty minutes: it was always those light blue eyes that held him and almost every man who saw her. Wow, you have something there, he was told.

A real doll, Nichole, with black gypsy hair and pale white skin, always such a contrast: the raven black, the light blue and the pale white,

And quiet, her voice almost a whisper, with the twinkle in her eye,

A throaty little chuckle, deeper (a touch of the naughty).

Wasn't she daddy's girl from L.A. money? Used to getting her way with men at eighteen,

a virgin bird to be admired. He took it all in every time he saw her: the clothes, the jewelry, the berets and knit caps, the quiet smile;

She was aware of the attention - a playful dip or turn, a sudden reaching, a glance back over the shoulder,

Yes, she was already playing the game.

He didn't know time when she played it.

It's always the eyes that call him back, and that contrast:

The raven hair, thick and lustrous, around the pale round face, apple red lips, and blue eyes that finally held him.

She was playful, this Gypsy, with a light tinkle in her laugh, who let her mind dart here and there, untamed, as yet, by school, by life.

When troubled thoughts passed like clouds, her blue eyes darkened, a passing storm.

He tries to see her now: heavier, a touch of gray up top, a harder, sadder and tired look of experience;

The bird's plumage has faded, no more fluttering here and there.

Yet perhaps the knowing warmth of motherhood, perhaps a healthy glow in those white cheeks, a well-fed plumpness,

And still those pale blue eyes that, in the right moment, could bring it back in a headlong rush.

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