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My vision locks onto him. His visa versa. Our focus on one another targets the very place where this ability of sight originates. Pupil to pupil. These black holes, that pull every grain of surrounding visual information deep into our craniums for every conscious moment that we have, are so level with one another that if you measured it with a spirit-level, the bubble would be perfectly central; right down to the atom. As for the stare into these portals to the mind, it was so focused that I could practically see the signals being collected and gift-wrapped; ready to be sent from the eye to the brain.

Admittedly, it has been a while since I have seen him. Considering that there have been moments, over the past while, when I’ve tried to destroy all traces of his existence from myself, it is about as surprising as the fact that most people had breakfast this morning that I haven’t really wanted to see him. But now I have finally brought myself to face him once more.

This, what cannot be described as a staring contest, only lasts a strand of time that would make a fruit-fly’s life-span seem a decent length before my attention migrates to the small continent of his eye-brows. Small, as in there isn’t much of them. In fact, I can’t really say that he does have any eyebrows. It looks magnificently terrible. I can quite confidently say that more hair could be found upon the head of a naked mole rat impersonating a monk than on his forehead.

I pity for him on that part: your eyebrows are a very beneficial tool in conveying emotion and meaning. It’s more incredible than an honest politician, the amount of words that can be said with the twitch of a brow. But this is something that he can’t do. There are occasions in life where you secretly feel like that you need to release your emotion like projectile vomit all over every surrounding individual. However, the Evil Emperor Modesty soon ‘kindly’ comes along and censors you from doing so: it is your eyebrows that are the key to breaking this censor as they will always honestly convey how you are feeling, not matter how hard you try to suppress it… He doesn’t have this get-out-of-modesty-free card; it’s more difficult for him to seep out his emotional state.

At this point, you may indeed be thinking that I have, perhaps, over-analysed this rather small detail of his facial anatomy. But, I can assure you that I am simply reflecting on what he has done for an impressive waste of his life. It is the vanity of him that really makes my stomach turn on its axis twenty-four hours a day. He has spent time, like a person lacking any financial commonsense would spend their dosh, just continuously pouring his self-deprecation into the mirror. Hopelessly weeping, with every adjective that his mind can generate, over and over and over to himself about how much of disgusting, unlovable, rotting, hatred-inducing, abominable, odious, female-deflecting, nauseating, outstandingly repulsive chunk of brittle non-human faecal matter that he truly is, by definition of his depressing existence…

… and it always comes back to his bloody eyebrows.

Not that the rest of his face is exactly much to have a Diamond Jubilee about: his boisterously humongous ears give him a laughable resemblance to a certain Enid Blyton character; his nose is so long would make you think that lies are the only thing that comes out of his mouth; his lips look as though they have been saturated with botox via the use of a bicycle pump and the way that he can never stop so tragically thinking of all these repulsive features, that cling to his face like acne, as if his appearance is the only problem that this entire planet has to endure, sometimes just makes me want to end it all.

End it all. This has to stop. Stop.

I turn away from him. Him visa versa. His movements symmetrical to mine. We now are both gone. Either side of the glass is now empty of our presence.