Saturday morning—Day T-80, for those keeping score at home—begins with me smiling like an idiot. I wake up that way, in fact. My cheeks hurt, so maybe I’ve been smiling all night long.
You can’t really blame me. Dry spells were made to be broken, but Good Lord Almighty, this one was broken in a way that English has not yet developed the words to describe.
I’m giddy and giggly just thinking about it.
Last night was… God, what evenwasthat? I replay it in my head, a vintage movie of my own that will never, ever get old: themarquee with my name, organ music rippling through the air, buttery popcorn on my tongue?—
And thenBastian’stongue on my tongue, and also on my…
Well, yeah.
My thighs clench involuntarily at the memory. Lit in movie theater glow, too beautiful to be believed, there he was, kneeling before me and reminding me of all the things my body becomes when he puts his hands on it.
Putty.
Fire.
Willing.
All in all, it seems very reasonable that I can’t stop grinning.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. I’m somewhere between hoping and dreading a text from him. It could be casual; that’d be fine. A simpleGood morningorHope you got home safeor literally anything that confirms last night actually happened and wasn’t some fever dream induced by sexual deprivation.
At the same time, a text would force me to acknowledge that thiswasn’ta fever dream. And if it wasn’t a fever dream, that means the consequences, whenever they do come, will not be a dream, either.
But my phone is blank. There’s nothing.
I’m not disappointed, though. Who, me? Disappointed. Never. Couldn’t be me. Could never catch me?—
Okay, fine. Slightly disappointed.
But that’s silly and I know it, so I’m just gonna pretend like the disappointment is a mild tummy ache and just go on with my day.
It’s a big day in its own right. Because today is the day I go into the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind for my first adaptive equipment orientation session.
I don’t really know what kind of outfit one wears for this sort of thing, so I throw on semi-athleisure-type-stuff: leggings, a quarter-zip sweatshirt, and sneakers. I braid my hair back and check my game face in the mirror.
“You got this, girl,” I say. “… Probably.”
I arrive twenty minutes early, because anxiety and punctuality are like PB & J for millennials like me. It’s a nice-looking place, very clean, very bright. There’s a reception desk staffed by a woman with kind eyes and a guide dog sleeping peacefully at her feet. The dog doesn’t even lift its head when I walk in.
“Hi,” I say, approaching the desk. “I have an appointment. Eliana Hunter. Nine-thirty with—” I check my phone. “—with Ani Agrawal?”
The receptionist smiles warmly. “Of course! You’re right on time. Well, early, actually. Would you like to have a seat? Ani will be out in just a few minutes.”
I settle into one of the chairs in the waiting area. I can’t keep my knee from bouncing, which is another one of those fun little side perks of anxiety.
Around me, I notice all kinds of other people—some with white canes, some with guide dogs, many looking every bit as nervous as I’m sure I do. A bulletin board on the wall advertisessupport groups, cooking classes, and technology workshops. It’s all pleasant and cheery. My anxiety doesn’t give a damn about pleasantry or cheer, of course, but it’s still nice that somebody made an effort to build a welcoming environment.
After a short wait, a woman emerges from a hallway, clipboard in hand. She’s forty or so, with warm brown skin and her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. “Eliana?”
I bounce up and nearly trip over my own feet. “That’s, uh—ouch—me. Hi.”
“I’m Ani. I’ll be your orientation guide today. It’ssolovely to meet you.” If the building we’re in is pleasant and cheerful, then Ani here must be its queen, because she’s like sunshine in human form. I find myself exhaling and smiling as I shake her hand. “Come on back.”
I follow her down a sunlit hallway into a small office. It’s organized but lived-in, with charts on the walls showing different types of canes and a bookshelf crammed with binders.
“Have a seat,” Ani says, pointing to a chair across from her desk.
