Old Spice

She sits on the couch, alone
except when people stop by
to say hello, it's good to see you,
then embarrassed at the word they
shuffle off to get a drink. It's new,
the blindness, they're not used to
it - as if she is - but sitting there
alone she thinks she's handling it far
better than her friends. Almost all
the people there, she knows by
voice and if she strains and concentrates
the voices separate, the heart-to-hearts
heard easily while everybody else fades
to a lower level. Quite the parlor
trick, but she is sick of hearing
all the pity from girls far less pretty
than she is, and then when they are
huddled at the bar precisely twenty
paces to the right, they giggle thinking
they'll have better chances getting
dates now that she's blind, 'cause who
would want a blind girl when the
sighted ones are oh-so-willing?
She is sitting, listening so intently
that she almost misses it, the fragrance
of an aftershave (and something else)
that takes her back to when she was
a little girl. She smiles and turns to face
the weight beside her on the cushion
that smells warm, all bourbon and Old Spice.
And she says, "Hi," and he leans in
to whisper, "I've been watching you,
all innocent and beautiful, eavesdropping
on the conversations all around you."
"Guilty," she says, grinning,
chuckling that he took the time to
give the blind girl his attention.
He smells heavenly and whispers,
"Well, you didn't hear what I
was saying - you're the only
person who looks even vaguely
int'resting." "Because I'm blind?"
she says uncertainly, a frown
appearing even as she tells herself
what was she thinking, anyway?
He laughs out loud. "You do not
really think that, do you?" And
she blushes, drinking in the moment,
knowing that he sees right through
her, liking the inspection. And
she looks right at him, sees him
in her mind, decides that Old Spice
will be spending quite a lot of time
with her, and she with him, that
in the darkness he may find
a way to make her see, and something else.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015