Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.   

I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”  

The can offered neither appeal nor apology.   

So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”   

In sooth,  
I said none of that.  
What I actually said was,  

Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say.

Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed "evil" or "stink" eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look. 

“Ah. Well. Good!” I said. “Gives me something to jot down in my journal.” 

13 April 2000   

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