What She Saw

The cashier has a glass eye or a prosthetic

or whatever the right word is for the part of her

that's not her. I notice because I'm looking,

and she notices that I'm noticing,

and her expression doesn't change.

One eye is fixed on some point beyond me.

The other one looks directly at my face

and finds me wanting.

I should look away. That's what

you're supposed to do when you're caught

staring at the thing someone doesn't want

you to see. But I don't. I'm frozen

in the moment of being seen, of having my

looking witnessed, of understanding that she's

been looked at her entire life and this

is just one more.

The real eye tracks my embarrassment.

The artificial one stays fixed,

unwavering, honest in a way

that feels almost cruel.

She scans my items. She doesn't speak.

We both know what happened.

We both know that I saw the thing

she's already accepted, and that seeing it

made me uncomfortable, and that my

discomfort is now the most honest thing

in this transaction.

I want to apologize. I want to explain

that I wasn't being cruel, that I was just

noticing, that my noticing wasn't judgment.

But she doesn't need my explanation.

She has her eyes—both of them,

the real one and the one that isn't—

and they both know exactly what I am.

The total comes to $23.47.

I pay it. I take my bag.

I leave.

But I can feel that fixed eye

following me out the door,

not moving, not blinking,

seeing me in a way I wasn't ready

to be seen.