The Glare

I want to be clear that I am not affected by it.

I'm documenting it. There's a difference. Scientists are not affected by the phenomena they study. They observe. They record. They commission retro sci-fi portrait series at considerable personal expense because the data required visual confirmation.

That's all this is.

Kira has a look. One look, technically, but it comes in variations the way weather comes in variations. It's still just weather. It still finds you.

She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. The look arrives first, quiet and exact, and by the time you've registered it you've already started explaining yourself. That's the mechanism. You're defending a position she hasn't even challenged yet. She just looked at you and now somehow you're the one talking.

I've tried not reacting. I've tried meeting it head-on. I've tried leaving the room before it fully lands.

None of these work.

The portrait series was my attempt to study it at a safe distance. Freeze it. Contain it. Understand the geometry of a thing that has, on multiple occasions, caused me to apologize for things I didn't technically do.

She saw the finished piece and looked at me exactly like that.

So. Ten angry glares. Documented. Framed.

Still not safe.

I'm also making playing cards.

Fifty-two of her, 1950s sci-fi, retro ink and starfields and that look reproduced at card stock weight so I can hold it in my hand and lose to it at solitaire.

I told myself it was an art project.

It isn't really an art project.

She's just got the best face for that era. Something about the clean lines and the deep backgrounds and the way the style was built for women who looked like they knew things you didn't. It suits her. More than it should.

The deck is just for me.

Don't read into it.

Cody Poston is definitely fine.