She hated the way he looked at her. Sometimes he seared through her as though he had something to prove, but he was too pussy-willowed in his boots to move her.
Other times she'd catch him trying hard not to look, like a little kid whose parents warned of bitey snakes in the cookie jar; petrified and hungry at the same time. She hated his non-looks, too.
But it was the times when he'd look at her with his eyes half-cocked, loaded with silent questions that screamed impenetrable shades of sadness that really pissed her off. If he had something to say, and she knew he did because his peepers couldn't hide shit, she just wanted him to put on his big girl panties and say it.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.