Jesus. Those eyes. Holy hell. How could they even be real? When had they gotten so green? Like soda bottles, or sea glass. Smooth pieces of stone that lay hidden at the bottom of the lake somehow finding their way to shore every summer just in time for rowdy little boys and their older brothers to pick them up, take them home, and add them to their growing collections. I’d spent days in the sweltering heat collecting stones the color of Rooster’s eyes. Pale and vibrant all at the same time. For years they’d sat on my window sill, catching sunbeams in the same way I bet his eyes did.
