He had east coast eyes, not quite a color. Starched button-downs hanging on the bedroom door. Leather shoes propped up against an off-white wall. His eyes were glasses of champagne without an accompanying toast. Slightly wrinkled bedsheets. Aching feet and a tie loose around the shoulders. Cloudy mornings. Too many cities and expectations and escapes, all-nighters and cement-set futures that leave no time for any of it to take. His east coast eyes were picture frames turned down.

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Jacqueline Hyatt is an undergraduate at Arizona State University. A member of the Creative Writing Concentration, she writes about the complexities of human relationships, growth, and the consequences of apathy. Her recent work has been published in Quirk, Bright Flash Literary Review, Applause, and Canyon Voices. She volunteers as Fiction Editor with Blood+Honey.