I pause, realizing the distinct shape of every curve and color housed inside her white, threadbare shirt is veiled slightly, but unequivocally unconcealed, and drop my eyes to the boxers. Nope, not any better, they’re thin too. Red bikini panties are a siren beneath the pale blue and white stripes. I drop my eyes lower to her knees and am met with stark ivory skin wrapped around mile-long legs. Jesus, the temptations are never-ending.
When I, thankfully, see her hands begin to feel their way along the wall, I clear my throat because embarrassment—not for her but for me, the callous asshole and apparent pervert—is clogging it. She’s blind.
I vocally answer in the affirmative, “Yes, next door to the left,” and silently tuck the undeniable attraction away because it’s been overshadowed by the blunt reality of my shame.
“Thanks,” she says on a sleepy smile as her hand floats over the opening of the bathroom door.
Giving her time to enter the tiny bathroom, I wait until she decides where she’s going to stand before I enter and shimmy past her.
“Sorry,” she says when I brush her arm with mine.
She’s trying to shrink into herself to make more room for me even though her back is already up against the wall, but she’s not timid. She’s self-assured; there isn’t an ounce of unease in her.
Which is probably because all of the unease in the universe has been absorbed into my bloodstream. I’m sustaining myself on it at the moment, and it sucks.
“It’s okay. The room’s small.” Not sure why I added that part. She may be blind, but she can get a sense of space by touch. This room is small enough that if you stand in the middle with arms outstretched, parallel walls are easily touched on both sides. I’m an idiot.
“It is,” she agrees. “I like it that way.”
Lifting the lid on the back of the toilet, I don’t comment and take a look inside. The chain connected to the flapper that lifts it up and down is broken; one of the links is cracked and split in two. I dig around in the toolbox and find a small coil of stainless steel wire and snip off two inches of it. The chain will need to be replaced but making a temporary link out of this wire should work for a while. The water in the tank is cold when I submerge my hands, so I make quick work of it.
“Can it be fixed?” she asks.
I replace the lid and flush the toilet to answer her question. When I look in the mirror over the sink, I see a wide smile break out on her face like the sound of that toilet flushing is the best answer she could’ve hoped for. I’d guessed her early twenties, but wearing this smile it’s obvious she’s younger, probably my age. This is the first time I’ve really looked at her. She’s pretty. Really pretty.
“That was quick. You’re a lifesaver, thank you.” Her voice sounds different, happier.
I understand the relief. When the only toilet in the apartment isn’t working, it’s kind of a bummer. But the thing about Alice is that every word she utters emits emotion. Her words seem to carry more weight and reveal more than most people’s do; they’re not frivolous. She doesn’t hide. I’ve never known a blind person before, maybe everything shifts around when one of your senses is stifled and you get a superpower in some other area. It’s interesting.She’sinteresting.
Accepting thanks has always made me uncomfortable. I’ve never spoken the phrase,you’re welcome, because the thought of it brings heat to my cheeks. Gratitude, whether sincere or the reaction of unconscious, trained manners, shines a momentary spotlight on me—I hate that. So I never acknowledge a thank you, I just move on. After quickly washing my hands in the sink, I would usually walk out and leave without saying anything more. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to do it with her.
“It’s a temporary fix. I’ll ask Johnny to get the part to fix it the right way this week though.” I almost add,I’m leaving, but then I decide to pick up my toolbox from the floor and squeeze by her instead.
But when she says, “Sorry,” again when I graze her arm, I blurt, “Bye.”
To which she immediately responds, “Bye, Toby. Thanks again.” Her voice sounds more awake now, the husk faded and replaced by softness.
The secondthank yousends me speed walking for the door. I turn the dial on the inside knob to lock before I pull it closed behind me.
My skateboard rideto the bus stop is consumed with thoughts of Alice: beautiful, confident, friendly, but alsoalone. I’ve been to that apartment twice and she’s been alone both times. Where are her parents? I was a latchkey kid myself, hell, I’ve lived with my drunk, most-of-the-time absent landlord for almost two years because my mom split, but the difference is I’ve never been helpless. Not that she’s helpless, she just seems…I don’t know…vulnerable. Like she could use some assistance. And suddenly I’m angry for her. I believe that ideal families only exist on television, because I’ve never seen one in real life. Why can’t parents justparent?
I’m still dwelling on it on the bus, but as soon as I step through the door of Mile High Comics, every stray thought vanishes. This is the place I get lost for an hour every week. I’ve always equated the smell of newsprint paper and ink with more than the entertainment factor that comics provide. The earnest search for the next great storyline is a quest. The enormous number of painstaking hours that went into creating each and every volume housed in this store feels like a sacrifice; the visual overload that the presentation of cover after cover provides is a gift. Every illustrator’s artwork is as unique and individual as a fingerprint, their style precise and identifiable—that’s my favorite part because it’s further proof that human beings aren’t carbon copies and there are never duplicates. I categorically memorize illustrators and their work, analyzing and appreciating. Todd McFarlane is god-like.
I do a slow walk-through of the store, meandering down each aisle like it’s my first visit. I know the owner probably thinks I’m a lunatic, but he leaves me alone and doesn’t follow me anymore now that he knows I’m not going to tuck something into my backpack that I didn’t pay for. After my walk-through, I go back to whatever section captured my attention the most (that is, unless there’s a new issue in the Dark Knight series, because it’s a given that I’ll go home with that) and I slip every book off the shelf one by one to look, careful to only touch the corners and not leave smudgy fingerprints on the slick cover. Time is irrelevant here, at least for a while. But around the hour mark, my conscience starts harping on me.Your time is up. You’ve been here long enough. You like being here, and you know you don’t deserve that.
I don’t.
So, that’s when I make my decision, pick the comic that’s going home with me, pay the grouchy curmudgeon behind the counter, and leave knowing this is likely the last time I will come here.
The entire journey back to the Victorian on Clarkson I feel guilty.
Guilty I enjoyed myself.
Guilty I was gone and not available for work if something happened.
Guilty I spent the dollar that I could’ve spent on food or something else.
Guilty I chose Amazing Spider-Man over Usagi Yojimbo.
