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By Reda Abdulrahman

A woman’s face speaks of things untold. If you look—truly look—within those eyes, you will catch glimpses of the past. You will see a mirror to the present. You may even read a prophecy of the future. She can veil her gaze once, twice, thrice—but at some point, as at any fortress, any stronghold, her guard will be let down, if only for an instant. In that instant there is infinity.

He never believed this until he saw Teresa. It was not just the scars on her cheeks which spoke of a brutal childhood fire, it wasn’t the blush on her cheeks that confessed to a lifetime of cooking dinners and dreams above blazing fires, the long mornings she tossed and turned eggs in the local diner of the little western town. In her sensual ink-black hair were woven memories of lovers who cared or bailed.

The slant of her eyebrows and the fire in her eyes hinted at the revolution of her youth, a rebel seed planted the day she escaped from the schoolbooks, tight white-man clothes, and screeching voices of the reservation. Her red lips and feathery earrings spoke of a love of nature, from the bloody Dakota sunsets to the ivy plants so rare and so precious in the town.

It had been years since they had played like aerial, released spirits amongst the sea of waving grasses in the unfettered prairies. Those years had passed, and many things had changed. He held her hand, and she did not have to speak.

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