He would stare at me, his gaze focused and direct. This never felt intrusive, on account that it wasn’t quite real. He had stared at hundreds of women, I understood, with those light-filled eyes. René knew his own beauty, used it as a tool, would have stared at whoever he was making love to in order to stir up a sense of urgency. His gaze wasn’t about love. It was about him and what he was after. It had nothing to do with me.