Between bites of biryani and samosas, she divulged the edited version of her childhood. He nodded in agreement and sighed, his eyes deep, inky pools, in frames of jet lashes.

Gazing into his right one she envisioned their baby daughter with his eyes, her red hair, and dimples, their Labrador and a terracotta brick house. In his left she saw heavy silence, raised voices, custody battles, siblings separated.

“Fancy a drink?” he said as they zipped up jackets.

“Not tonight, I’ve a deadline,” she said to his left eye, then hesitated. “Maybe next week?” she added to his right.

“Okay,” he smiled, then something flashed across his face, as she glimpsed him frowning into her left eye.

Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and Paragraph Planet. Her stories have been broadcast on BBC Radio.