That Woman’s Eyes

She, the lonely heart with eyes telling of suffering.
A fight fatigue gazing across the room subtle, a shy-like hesitant, except with wiliness to engage.

The tea she blows, sips it hot. Both hands clutching, only eyes appear above cup. Her stare, a magnetic pulling. Her stare engaging, yet unsettling.

I’m at interest peak with full gladness.
My smile offers an overachieving welcoming.
My eyes wide. They’re innocent. They are forgiving.

Quickly her face expression deepened.
Body movement shifts uneasily.
Bracing upward out of my chair with the intent to achieve— the close encounter.

Until I hear “I’m ready,” the voice deep, a forceful tone. He takes her hand. My destination halted. Seeing this man’s hand she’s now holding; like moth to flame, the journey is over.

Suave as the actor sinking back in chair, with foolish-face scrambled brain and all. Were signs misinterpreted? My inner question.

Then, like a moment to prevent time. She gives a backward glance with petitioning eyes. A distress code universally recognized.

What am I to do? The judge without proof. Still, can I carry on tomorrow perceiving a possible agony this woman is going through today. Am I alone at the crossroad to decide this woman’s fate?

Surely there must be some comfort unto myself that there’s no proof involved. Though I have felt well advised, seeing the look in that woman’s eyes.