I'm just typing this straight into the window. We'll see how it goes:

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You can't stare at someone's eyes. You just can't. You can stare at an eye, but not two of them. So when I say that I'm staring this guy in the eyes, what I mean is I'm staring at one black pearl, then another. I'm switching between the two every few seconds, just to keep the edges of my eyeballs moist. I don't want to blink. I don't want to think what might happen if I do.

When you stare at someone for this long, it's amazing what you start to see. At first you just focus in on the details of the eyes you're looking at. And these eyes are just pure black, however long I stare at them. The whites surrounding the dark pools of colour are dazzling in comparison. No detail there, just pure, healthy perfection. But then your peripheral vision kicks in. You start to see things that you're not looking at. A face, a person, a room.

I can give you every detail of this guy. His eyes look so perfect, they could have been man-made, but the rest of him is another story altogether. The tanned skin that covers his face looks worn, as though it has lived through one too many holidays in tropical sunshine, a few too many winters of biting cold. His nose is oh so subtley bent to the left, and slightly flat. I'm betting he wasn't born that way. Solid cheekbones surround a mouth that is a complete contrast to mine. I'm sat here with my face pursed from concentration. If my eyes weren't open, you'd think I was expecting a kiss. But him! There's just no expression. Nothing that tells me he is feeling any anguish or anxiety right now. How can he be so calm?

At least his hair's a bloody mess. That said, he probably doesn't thiink so. It's that kind of deep brown that looks black with the right gel, but he's got it 'styled' in long straight curves that defy gravity, and attract women.

How long have we been staring at eachother? I don't know, and it's hard to remember how this impasse came about. I've been staring so hard for so long, all I know now is that something bad will happen if I don't keep watching this fucker.

A stiff pain creeps up my neck. I've been in the same position too long, and my body doesn't like it. I stretch my neck one way, then the other. I'm watching his eyes the whole time. The only reaction is a very slight raise of his left eyebrow. My focussed vision tracks the movement in great detail. The muscle twitches involuntarily upwards, taking the dark brown tuft of thick hair with it. It's like he's waiting for me to look away, to lose concentration, and then for me it'll all be over. In the worst way.

Somewhere over my shoulder, I hear someone cough quietly, shortly followed by the quiet sound of 'Shhh' pushed through a finger pressed against dissaproving lips.

Mustn't blink. Mustn't look away. But I can't do this forever. I want to scream 'STOP FUCKING STARING AT ME YOU SONOFABITCH!', but something tells me that'll only give him what he wants. My eyeballs start to burn. I need to blink so badly, my entire body is starting to twitch from the effort of keeping them open. A bead of sweat meanders down the side of my head and curves maliciously into my right eye. The eye convulses reflexively, but by a miracle, I keep it open, keep it trained on him.

Is it my imagination? Are his eyes wider? Is he leaning closer to me now than he was before? Is that a look of anticipation on his face?

I can't clear the sweat from my eye. Every reflex my body has is trying to blink out the intruding liquid. One eye stings from being too dry, the other from the salt seeping in from the sweat. It's too much. I can't do it any more.

In that instant of weakness, I slam my eyes shut, and wait for the end.

The world comes back to life. A guttural scream rips through the room. A pronouncement of triumph. Two dozen voices cheer his name, people that were stood to one side, waiting for a winner. He did it. He beat me. He stared me out. With my eyes still closed, I pull the two quid coin from my pocket and flick it across the table.

No lunch today then.

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