“I’m thirty-two. How old are you, Chantel?” he asked, looking down to see her sightless eyes focused on his face. He knew instantly that if she could, she would be looking right at him.
“I’m twenty-six.”
Running his fingers along the bare skin across her shoulder, he inquired softly, “Am I too old for you?”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “No.”
“No?”
“No, you’re not too old.”
Stepping back, he dropped his hand and immediately missed touching her. “Why does it matter?”
Tilting her head to the side, she pursed her red lips as though she was about to answer him. However, at the last moment, she lowered her head.
She’s shy.
Placing a finger under her chin, he told her softly, “I feel it, too.”
Her mouth parted as she blinked up at him. “You do?”
Silently, he nodded and then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes. I feel you.”
A smile lit up her face. It was so radiant that it looked like it had burst from her soul. He couldn’t help but think that he was looking at an angel, because she sure as shit didn’t seem to be real.
“What did you want to show me?” she asked, smile still in place.
“Are you okay to go up some stairs?”
Nodding, she stepped forward, closer to him. “Once I know my surroundings in a room, I don’t even need my cane. I use it just to get from point A to point B and, of course, to guide me through unfamiliar territory.”
“Well then, we’ll have to work on getting you familiar, won’t we?”
She shied away, and for the moment, he let her.
“Okay, come with me,” he urged her, leading her up the stairs.
He stops.
I look up at him from my notepad. “Why did you stop?”
Phillipe glances at me as he asks a completely random question. “Is that your natural hair color? That honey blonde? It almost looks like you highlighted the brown through it.”
Taken off guard, I raise one eyebrow as I straighten my back. “You want to know if I color my hair?”
He picks up the glass of water sitting beside him and takes a sip. “Well?”
“I really don’t think that has any relevance. Do you?”
Standing, he makes his way toward me. All of a sudden, I start to think that maybe I should have just answered his question. He leans down until we are eye to eye.
“Actually, it holds a lot of relevance. Why are people so offended when asked such a simple question about appearance?”
Straightening back up, he walks by me and makes his way over to the window.
“Looking at someone’s appearance is a privilege we take for granted, Gemma. Describing yourself to a person who cannot see you is difficult, to say the least.”
He turns back to face me, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. Leaning back against the window frame, he crosses one leg over the other.
