There was something about the way she looked at me. That is, when she thought to look at me at all.

I hate thinking about her. I know to my bones that she rarely, if ever, thinks of me anymore. Why do I torture myself so?

There was something about the way she looked at me.

I could be quite clever, charming, and dashing, but never any of those things around her. Somehow she disarmed me. Yet it never seemed to be for the better.

I almost never saw her smile. I saw her laugh on occasion, but never at any of my jokes. She hated self-deprecation. She glared at me in utter distaste if I ever dared to mention that she did not like me.

It was only when she was transported to a very different place and time that I was able to see her in her element. She laughed. A lot. She smiled incessantly. She flirted shamelessly with almost everyone; of course, not me. Yet she was not unfriendly towards me. I just seemed to be pegged to that other life. Destined to hold the purse, but never open its contents.

I was a sounding board for all that was wrong. My arguments quickly dismissed; after all, I only had an undergraduate degree. What could that possibly mean?

There are times that I think that I see what it all means. There are occasions where I think everything might be about me. I suppose the thing I miss about the way she looked at me is that the world was lost and meant nothing despite all of those things. The thing that eats at me is that I meant little to her, regardless of what it meant to me.

Do I focus on her eyes and her smile? Do I hear her laughter? Do I hear her voice ring true to my awaiting ears? Or do I close myself to those unrequited desires? It is simple enough to shut the book and look for another. After all, I am cold, calculating; logical.

There was something about the way she looked at me.