Her eyes. Forget what she said. Her eyes said everything. They always did, from the first time we met to presumably her last dying breath. I should be so lucky.

The sterile environment cast its sickly glow upon her as she walked, one leg mincing in front of the other as she came. She was so demure, so refined, so ill-suited to this place, this habitation of dregs and miscreants.

I don’t know what I expected. I suppose I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. That’s what most people say about me, I believe. But she sat across the plexiglass from me, and I saw the fight behind her eyes, a concerto of sorrow, recrimination, and hesitation.

I did not see hope in her eyes..

I did not see love in her eyes.

Her hand, so fluid and graceful, picked up the cold, black receiver on her side. Of course, I’d had mine plastered to my sweating face for an eternity. She would speak, her eyes seemed to indicate. I would not like the words. They would not be kind. Her eyes warned me.

Damn her eyes.