What was it in his eyes? Not Monday, too sluggish. Not Tuesday, too fair. Wednesday? Maybe. Wait, Friday. Definitely Friday. An entire succession of Fridays with their infinite possibilities and wild freedom.
Better yet? Summer. Its hazy glint of blazing afternoons, burning stars, and galaxies ripped open wide in a nightly show replayed in his pupils for the world to take notice.
But did it? Did it slow its rushing and clawing and climbing and grasping to stop and look? I mean stare?
If it had, they would have seen, could have inhaled present. Clock hands turned, digital numbers flipped, even sunlight shifted. But his eyes . . . wet with oceans and the beams of a thousand lighthouses anchored.