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The Convergence
By Lela Michael
from Glendale,CA

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The first time I saw you was at LAX. I had flown out from New Mexico to meet you, my favorite chat room chum, for a weekend out with the girls, or so we had both told our husbands.

This would have been the entire truth if not for your eyebrows. A more curious moment I have never experienced than when you first stood in front of me, for I was mesmerized instantly with how perfectly they stayed still the first time you smiled at me.

Certainly I became fond of the rest of you as our weekend progressed through sightseeing, dinners out, shopping and people watching. As any man would have done, I stole glances at your figure, imagined running my fingers through your auburn hair, and wondered what it would be like to kiss you when you were laughing. But I always went back to those two immovable objects above your eyes.

A more vivid vision I cannot imagine than your eyebrows sitting on your face so perfectly. Throughout our weekend, no matter what the topic, setting, or time of day, your eyebrows did not move. They became all-powerful, those two semi-circles sitting next to one another politely without a hint of possible convergence.

On our last morning together, as we sat in a coffee shop at LAX waiting for my plane, I handed you an envelope. Your eyebrows did not move. (Whatís this? Are you kidding, you wrote a poem for me? How sweet.) You opened the envelope, eyebrows immobile, and began to read the poem silently. I waited, watching.

Almost imperceptibly, then, your eyebrows moved toward each other. You must have been about half way through the poem. If I had blinked I would have missed it, but I know they moved, and you know it too. (Oh, boy.) It was all you said, it was the last thing you said to me, you stopped reading and walked away, and I have hated that poem ever since.

My thoughts about your eyebrows have always been a secret, something I donít even let myself think about, usually. But every so often when Iím in a tall building looking out a window or in the Hollywood Hills looking at a spectacular view I wonder where you are, and what your address might be, so that I can mail you a new poem, a better poem, one that isnít so trite.

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