Eyes
She gawked into my eyes, studying it with intensity. I thought something was on my face, or at least my eyes.
Is it turning red again? Are the styes back? Is it drooping from the lack of sleep the night before? Suddenly, questions along the lines of these popped inside my head. But her blank stare did not gave away any of the answer I was looking for.
Her eyes were wide, expressive, but currently devoid of emotion -- like a doctor examining a patient, or like a student studying his notebook for an exam. Those eyes looked into mine, for so long that I started to wonder why.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked her.
"Looking at you like what?" She said in reply.
"Like you want to eat me." I said, mostly because of having anything better to describe it with.
"You really are Chinese." A stroke of randomness ingulfed her reply.
"What of it?" Curious on what made her say it.
She then put her tender fingers on the outer part of my eye (I forgot what is that called, sorry).
"That."
She pressed it and traced a thin line towards my ears.
"So I have tiny eyes, so what? I'm Filipino, a hundred percent chopseuy!" I protested. I never really liked to be called Chinese, because, well, I am not. At least not entirely. My grandfather is a pure one, but I never lived early enough to see him face to face.
"Okay, whatever you say." She said in resignation.
Still, that night, she continued staring at my eyes for so long until we both fell asleep.
Is it turning red again? Are the styes back? Is it drooping from the lack of sleep the night before? Suddenly, questions along the lines of these popped inside my head. But her blank stare did not gave away any of the answer I was looking for.
Her eyes were wide, expressive, but currently devoid of emotion -- like a doctor examining a patient, or like a student studying his notebook for an exam. Those eyes looked into mine, for so long that I started to wonder why.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked her.
"Looking at you like what?" She said in reply.
"Like you want to eat me." I said, mostly because of having anything better to describe it with.
"You really are Chinese." A stroke of randomness ingulfed her reply.
"What of it?" Curious on what made her say it.
She then put her tender fingers on the outer part of my eye (I forgot what is that called, sorry).
"That."
She pressed it and traced a thin line towards my ears.
"So I have tiny eyes, so what? I'm Filipino, a hundred percent chopseuy!" I protested. I never really liked to be called Chinese, because, well, I am not. At least not entirely. My grandfather is a pure one, but I never lived early enough to see him face to face.
"Okay, whatever you say." She said in resignation.
Still, that night, she continued staring at my eyes for so long until we both fell asleep.