My Green Eyes See More Than First Impressions

When I look at the man sitting across from me on the phone in the coffee shop, my green eyes detect more than first impressions. I cannot smell the fancy and expensive espresso lingering above his top lip, clean shaven of course, but I can smell his thoroughly applied high quality cologne, thick and robust, a truly sexy scent. Through smiling white teeth, he speaks in a hushed tone, flicking a solid silver pen back and forth over a blank notepad with a consistent ba-dap ba-dap ba-dap as little ink dots appear on the page. He is respectably middle aged, with very little gray in his gelled black hair, a brown leather briefcase resting at his side along with a small stack of other papers, jutting in and out with a most unorganized fashion. He is proud and charismatic until the pen suddenly flies out of his hand and onto the floor by an older gentleman in his seventies or eighties, and he looks around the shop with pursed lips to see if anyone noticed. An impatient smirk from the businessman as his manicured hand touches the speaker of his cell. “Psst…” he calls like a cat to the old man, who doesn’t respond. “Hey!” A quiet whisper. The man looks up from his slice of lemon poppy seed cake with an innocent look on his face. The business man responds to a question from the other end with a comment and a chuckle, and the old man returns to eating his treat. The businessman puts the phone to his chest and gestures to the old man with two dog authoritative snaps. The old man lifts his head again to see his trainer pointing to the pen on the floor with a demanding look in his eye before placing the phone back to his ear, his facade returning to the same plastered white smile. The old man looks to the floor and sees nothing, for his eyesight is rather poor at his age. He scratches his thin white hair before picking up his newspaper, pulling his glasses up to his nose, and beginning to read. The businessman notices this and looks taken aback. His smile dulls and he lets out a callous scoff. His light blue eyes roll into the back of his head and turn in my direction, noticing me sitting across the way, and mouths, “Can you believe this guy?” Another eye roll followed by a shake of the head before standing up, pushing his chair back with a long screech, strutting the meager five feet to his pen, sweeping his free arm down to the ground, one leg up for balance, and successfully retrieving his possession. He speaks into his cell with a fervor, “No, no... I just dropped my pen.” The last word rings in the hearing aid of the old man who recoils from the sudden aggression and drops his last bite of lemon poppy seed cake onto his news paper, where it cascades down like a waterfall to his lap, his hand fumbles to catch the final morsel, his rusted fingertips collide with a bit of icing, but alas the cake falls to the floor. The old man is defeated.

Before the businessman returns to his seat, I get a better look at him. My green eyes see more than first impressions. They wander from his attractive face to his chest, where anyone else would see a lavish suit and tie. My green eyes see a concave chest, aged and decrepit, with mold and red bloody flesh and white bone of his exposed rib cage, the odor of decay surly masked by his ostentatious perfume. My green eyes see his greed, piled in golden coins and green dollar bills that fill his hollow center, from the top of his belt to consuming his heart, a red and repetitive beating machine, with a slow annoying pulse that his pen had shared before. My green eyes can see how sad his heart is, unable to breath, suffocating in wealth and hatred of his very being. I try not to stare but the sight is too humiliating to ignore. The businessman takes out his sharp black wallet and pays for his drink, leaving a single dollar tip under the glass which becomes stained with espresso. My green eyes watch as a spectral dollar floats from under the cup and lands perfectly around his heart, pressing and squeezing. The man clears his throat and adjusts his tie with one final glare towards the old man, a wink towards the waitress as he leaves.

The old man finishes his coffee. He stands, brushing lemon poppy seed cake crumbs off of his khaki pants, then wipes his hands on his orange and green striped polo and tucks in his chair nicely. My green eyes see the same decrepit chest, yet instead of the caustic and abrasive phantom, they see a tranquil spirit full of understanding and innocence. The color of his flesh is a pale pink color, not bloody at all. The nature of his being is inviting and warm, a soft glow in perpetual darkness. My green eyes see that his greed consists of a small stack of quarters and dimes, with a few rather old pennies. His heart is small and frail, but beats healthily with rhythmic purity as he pulls out his worn brown wallet and takes out enough money to pay for his drink and cake. He limps carefully and slowly towards his waitress and gives her three dollars for a tip and explaining that he dropped a piece of lemon poppy seed cake on the floor, and that he would pick it up himself if his hips weren’t so weak. They smile together for a moment as the soft spoken woman collects a wad of crappy brown paper napkins and makes her way to the table to clean up the cake, and the old man waits to thank her with an inviting handshake, his wrinkled hand loose and pale with streaks of blue veins snaking up his arm. She takes his hand and her own pile of greed lessens by a dollar or so as the spectral bills float out of her chest by her shoulder, up and around her arm and down to the old man’s hand, where it dissipates into the air. 

My green eyes see more than first impressions. When I look into a mirror, I see everything that you’d expect to see: a young woman with long curly blond hair, fair skin, and round green eyes with dirty flecks of gold. I wear a simple white shirt with golden sunflowers under the arms, arching around my shoulders and filling my back, leaving my chest plain and open. But my green eyes see more than what I want. I look at myself and I beg not to know.