Eyes

He always had the most amazing eyes. She wouldn't say they were chocolate—too dark for milk, too light for dark, and they were never that sweet anyway—but she would concede coffee, dark and bitter and electrically energizing. They were expressive, too—could send out come-hither vibes from twenty paces away, could make the tendons in your legs disappear, could even make you feel sorry for him, if you were into that kind of thing.

She remembered the first time she had seen those eyes—looking at her soulfully from along the bar. She wasn't stupid; she knew he could use those eyes, and she had to be careful or she'd wind up really attached. So she had been careful, and she'd only wound up a little attached—attached enough to be pissed when she learned through the grapevine that he'd been romancing several other women.

But even for all of that, she hadn't blamed his eyes. She hadn't wanted it to be the eyes. There was nothing wrong with his eyes, really, except—

The mouth that went with them.

The mouth that had talked her up at the bar, that had spouted cheesy lines and she had still laughed at them, the mouth that had talked her out of the bar, the mouth that had talked him to her place, the mouth that had talked her into bed—God, what a mouth! He chattered like a thirteen-year-old girl at a sleepover—sassy, gossipy, and a lot. And yet he hadn't said a damn word when she told him what she'd heard, said it first in a joking tone then in an accusatory tone then in an angry tone. No, he had just shrugged, as if to say, So?

And that was when she knew she'd have to do it. Take something away from him. Not his life; he hadn't taken hers. But he had taken something away from her, and she would deal with it the only way she knew: take something from him. His mouth was what she really would have preferred to remove, but removing a mouth isn't so easy. Oh, but his tongue… Well, you have a point there. But she had forgotten about that.

But neither of them really were the problem if you didn't have ears to hear. However, there was no real way to remove the little beasts, that heard so much and sent it to the brain which processed it in microseconds, making decisions that made absolutely no sense to anyone but him but somehow always turned out right in the end. Except, of course, the decision to fuck her over. That had been the wrong decision. She had made it be the wrong decision.

For all of his powers of hearing and talking and seeing, he wasn't psychic, and he hadn't seen or heard or spoken of it coming, because there was no way he could know. She had pretended she was only angry, and hurt; she had shot at him, but jerked the muzzle of the gun deliberately to the side, pretending it was emotion that made her do that—but it was all planned, every bit of it. She had let him get away without even a parting shot in the ass, let him escape through the window. She had warned him off angrily when he tried to come back to her, make it up to her; had changed the locks.

And when she finally pretended that the charms of those eyes had made her let him back in, had told those ears what they wanted to hear (but with the proper amount of hurt and angry guardedness), and had let that mouth chatter its way to its owner's demise, she had been grinning inside, a small secret grin that she only let out when he had gone. Neither eyes nor ears nor mouth could save him now; he had well and truly fucked himself.

And that, she decided at last, satisfied, was something she could drink to.