I was having nothing of it. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. No way was I gonna look back over my shoulder, see if those glowy eyes were aimed in my direction. It doesn't matter that the hair is pricking under my shirt-sleeves, I say to myself, or that I can feel the elastic tension of when something is divided and magnetically wants to pull together to achieve wholeness once more. As long as I didn't peek or peer around, the question of whether or not I was being looked upon could remain moot - a Schrodinger's eyeball conundrum.