He looks at me like I was God’s blueprint, like if Eve wouldn’t have eaten the fruit and simply chose Adam as enough. He looks at me like that last piece of minty gum after running out of the house forgetting to brush your teeth. He looks at me like the roll of toilet paper you find under the sink in the bathroom way in the back when you thought for sure there was none left. He looks at me like that gas station you finally see after driving miles on E in the middle of nowhere. He looks at me like the last piece of paper in your notebook at the end of the school year. He looks at me like the last soda that you find in the side door of the fridge that someone tried to hide. I look at him confused because sometimes I don’t see what he sees. I’ve looked at me for so long, that me is just me, but he makes me want to see me with the same prominence as he.