Eye See You
When the mailman came pedaling by on his 3-wheel cargo bike, Wilhelmina poked her head out of the dormer window, and in her cheeriest sing-song voice issued a hellooo-oo. When he looked up, she gave the queen’s wave.
When Perry said he didn’t love her anymore, Wilhelmina moved herself into the small apartment above the garage, walled herself off and had the stairs removed. She did not want to see anyone. She was going to shut Perry out, with no opportunity to worm his way back in. She would paint, she told herself, but after the first few days, landed up sitting by the window overlooking the grey rubble in the front driveway.
When the mailman came pedaling by on his 3-wheel cargo bike, Wilhelmina poked her head out of the dormer window, and in her cheeriest sing-song voice issued a hellooo-oo. When he looked up, she gave the queen’s wave.
Being friendly took effort. Wilhelmina reeled up the wicker basket and retrieved the clutch of envelopes, flyers, bills, postcards, Good Housekeeping and her trusted Woman’s Day Magazine. Sinking back into the tired wingback chair, she leafed through the batch of letters, bills and adverts looking for something to perk up her mood.
A single postcard bulged. She flipped it over - no message, no signature, no return address. The eye on the front though, so pretty. She tacked it to the fridge. When she passed by, it stared back.
Two weeks later the mailman deposited a second postcard in the basket with the usual bits and bobs. The eye was pale, iridescent, with gossamer rings like Jupiter. She tried to get a fix on the person behind the lens. Her finger traced the tiny crow's feet, its odd feline shape, hues that changed from olive-green to burnt auburn to metallic gold. A him she decided, someone of great stature, intelligent, most definitely prosperous. A keepsake for sure.
A third eye arrived weeks later, this one, radiating ultraviolet waves. The gravitational pull left her breathless. She studied the squiggly spider veins, pupil, and macula, searching for its essence. She was certain she was being courted. What else could it be.
In the mirror, Wilhelmina examined her own eye—lacklustre and murky, like a joyless winter day. When was the last time she fancied herself a suitor? Her hands rushed up to adjust her pompadour, corralling stray hairs, their texture dry like cigar ash. She fingered the buttonhole on the front of her mushroom-coloured cardigan once embellished with seed pearls and fine embroidery, now frumpy and frayed. It had been so long. She could not imagine reciprocating.
She yanked the postcards from the fridge, tossing them into the trash, finished with the whole affair. Within days another arrived. A burning steely-eye, angry and unforgiving. How cruel and hurtful she conceded; her lover scorned.
Days passed. The afternoons, long and full of regret. She rifled through the small packages and perishables piling up in the basket, looking for a card, a message, sign, a small gesture. Her wingback chair becoming threadbare.
On the night of the storm, a violent thunderclap threw open the dormer window. She watched, astonished, as a flurry of postcards swooped in like a flock of doves; a peace offering. Wilhelmina swooned. Beautiful and intensely personal, each eye more individual than any fingerprint…each imploring.
Wilhelmina took a close-up with her Polaroid. Mixed-metal eyes, once pale and rheumy, sizzled. The game afoot.
Karen Schauber's flash fiction appears in ninety-five international literary magazines, journals, and anthologies, with a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, four Best Microfiction nominations, and a spot on The Wigleaf Top 50 Longlist. She curates Vancouver Flash Fiction, an online resource hub, and Miramichi Flash, a monthly literary column. Karen lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. https://KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com
