Red high heels, white stripes on a crosswalk, bubble gum on the curb, long legs wrapped in tight jeans. Marget paused to press a cigarette between her reflective lips. Her expensive claws scoured shoulder bag and disappointed, snagged a passing stranger. “Got a light?”

The man kept his eyes averted while he forked over a penny store lighter. Marget puffed her addiction into existence, chuckled. Don't look lively women in the eyes, she thought, it will only bring trouble. She handed it back, nodded, clicked down the cement.

“Lady!”

Her shoe hovered a moment. She looked back, through her mass of brown ringlets. The man wriggled his fingers as if to say hello, then pointed to his wrist. “Do you have time?”

She sucked air and tobacco, rolled her eyes to the sky, clicked back to him, held her heavy rhinestone watch at eye level and waited for him to read it. He flicked his face up, registered the watch, buried his eyes in the ground, then looked again, slow, deliberate. His eyes rested on the clock face, then jumped to the face beyond.

Her cigarette tumbled over the curb, onto the street, was crushed under the wheel of a Cadillac.

“Just what I thought,” said the man. “You've been given too much already.”

A rush of pedestrians separated them and a moment later she was alone.

Marget stood frozen and found the fading afternoon a cold place to be. People were starting to look curiously at her so she plunged back into the river of movement and washed into a classy little bistro. White gold and cat's eye rings waved to her. A woman called her name in the tone used for dogs and best friends. Marget slid into the red seat across from her and ordered an Espresso Martini.

“Spare a cigarette, Marm? What kept you, I thought we were meeting at five, why it must be five thirty by now!”

“You aren't going to believe this.” Marget fumbled for a pack, held it out to her friend, a blond twenty something with wide eyes and bony wrists. “My car broke down this morning, so I walked here from Seventh and--”

“I told you the car was trash. How much did you pay for it? If you want my advice, don't bother fixing it. It's a few years old anyway, better to just snag a new one.”

“Fiona, that's not the insane thing.”

“You're right, the insane thing is that you walked instead of taking a taxi. Three blocks!” Fiona flicked a match and leaned back, twirling smoke between her fingers. A waiter in black brought crème brulee and bread pudding, set the dishes on the mahogany table beside the charming embroidered napkins. Outside, the sky drained to darker tones. Inside, faceted lamps threw beams of light everywhere and irregular shadows accented faces, hid fellow diners.

Marget sipped her martini, but her hands were too unsteady to hold it for long. It was a trick of the light, she told herself. I imagined it, the stress with the car and everything made me go a little mad, is all. “Fiona, a man asked me for the time today...”

“Did you tell him to bug off and get his own damn Rolex?” She inquired.

“I was about to,” Marget stabbed her pudding. “But he had just loaned me a lighter and--”

“Where were you?”

“Just on the corner, but anyway--”

Fiona clucked her tongue and flicked ash onto the table. “You smoked a whole damn cigarette that fast? You must have been walking awful slow. And me waiting here all alone and dreadful bored!”

“I didn't smoke it, I dropped it. Will you just listen?” Marget glared, then let her fork clatter against her plate and dropped her face into her hands. “He looked at me and he'd been careful not to at first but then he looked and I saw his eyes and he said something and his eyes!” She pulled her face up and it was pallid. “Please, Fiona, I don't feel well. Won't you drive me home? I don't think I can walk.”

“Well, you are raving like a lunatic. And your cheeks! Darling, did you remember to wear blusher today?”

They paid and collected Fiona's convertible. Ten minutes later, the car pulled into a gated gravel drive lined by cypress trees. Margret made no move to open her door. Fiona tapped ash out the window and gave her a stern look. “It's best not to think about it.”

Margret jerked her head up, blinked. “About what?”

“What you saw.” She took a long drag and blew a plume of smoke above her head. “Just forget about it.”

Margret's throat tightened. Her claws snared Fiona's shoulder. “You know?”

She plucked the nails from her skin. “I can guess.”

“But then--”

“Nope.” Fiona leaned over and snapped Marget's door open. “Everyone notices it at some point. It happens to most of us. Delicate matter. Not polite to speak about. Go take a nap, you look dreadful.” She gave a little push and Margret stumbled onto her driveway. The door snipped shut and the car roared away, Fiona waving and flashing a spotlight smile and promising to call tomorrow.

Two minutes later Marget stood in her living room. She kicked her heels off and collapsed onto her white leather couch. A television sat across from her, so huge it took up the whole wall like a black eye. God, forget about it. How can I just forget about it? The way he brought his head up, so slow, and then looked right at me and through me with those eyes, those big eyes that were--

If the eye is the window to the soul, then what does it mean when the whole eye is filled with static? Static, staring at me and jumping around like maggots and house flies and sizzling and sputtering under dark brows? What does Fiona mean, that it happens to most of us? Do I have time?

She glanced at the TV and ice zig zagged up her spine, pooled in her stomach. The black glass reflected her form, but there was something wrong. She slid to the carpet and slunk to the wall. Her fingers gripped the edge of the television and pulled her up. There she was, a watery form made dark save for her eyes. Her eyes were bright in the glass, bright and full of movement. She batted her long lashes and watched the static open and close, open and close. Channel unavailable.

Lips pulled up at the corners, twitched a little. “Could be worse, at least no one will notice the change.”