Eyes..
I hate the way she stares at me when we are in conversation. Her eyes move with my every nervous fidget. She keeps this close eye on me, expects me to take something from her, off of her desk, out of the office. In her piercing, blue eyes, I'm thief. If its missing I took it, if its moved, I moved it. She stares me down, redressing me in skirts and cute feminine tops, long hair and make up, while sneers at my men's khaki's and polo shirt, short hair and natural coloring. The uncomfort in her eyes is immense. She is scared, scared of what she doesn't know; scared of looking bad to her fellow co-workers, donors. She has me in her office,I, the thief, the "boy", the queer.