Little Miss Mute
By David M. Bachman
Copyright 2012 David M. Bachman
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It was her eyes that should have told me everything about her, right from the very beginning. It felt like just random chance that our gaze met from across the bar at that one moment, but I should have known it was deliberate. Those eyes, like huge green emeralds that shone from behind round black-framed windows with heavy dark curtains, were her first line of offense. The dame had gorgeous eyes, and she knew it … and she was using them on me.
I waited for her to glance away. They always did, any time I caught a gal looking my direction. They stared at the freak show for as long as they dared, but looked away the very second their attention was too obvious. It wasn’t politeness or courtesy, but fear. I was a scary kind of guy, at least to anyone that didn’t know me. I was scary because they didn’t know how I’d come to look the way that I did, nor could they be sure what I was capable of doing. They couldn’t know whether I was a man of good intentions or ill repute, but a man with scars running across his face the way mine did could only be considered bad. That was most women for ya’, except for this one.