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  Thirteen Lashes

 Tomi Shaw
 

 

 

Eyelashes, the first impression of our metaphorical window.  I memorize them while he sleeps.  Not the lid, the eyeball’s physical shade, where the rollings of dream and nightmare distort the presentation.  I watch the decoration, the fringe of color simultaneously inviting and filtering.  Note how a single twitch sets a lone lash into dance over the lightest of freckles.  Gigantic concentration upon insignificance, an elephant tight roping on dental floss.  Attention.

It’s akin to seasoning chili.  He likes his to mark the concoction as bean, beef and tomato stew, nothing more.  It cannot bite.  No Tabasco, peppers or powder.  Absolutely no beer.  I, on the other hand, will not call a gruel like that chili.  It needs spice.

Before he took tonight’s trail to slumber, he winked the wink he’s used since college to get me into this bed, the pulling together of shade and decoration in a manner meant for nothing else but to get him into me.  Thirteen of his lashes disappeared in the crinkle of that old wink.  I know.  I counted.  And have been since he fell asleep.

 

 

 

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Tomi Shaw is a reader, a thinker and a racecar driver. She has three daughters, one husband and a mutt Chow/Husky mix. She lives in a place where chipmunks and raccoons are as much pets as the dog. There are lots of trees here. And bugs. She loves the sound of rain falling on a tin roof. Her work has appeared in Absinthe Literary Review, Snow Monkey, Kentucky River and Penthouse, to name a few.  She has guest- edited for FFC's All Story Extra and is currently an assistant editor with PrairieDog 13 Magazine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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