"What do you see?"
He asked, from the strangely—disturbing—couch he was lying on. How comfortably he was, I failed to see.
I said nothing, and proceeded with laying down the cup of coffee on the table.
"Are you really blind? . . . Because I can't see how."
His voice was a child's unsatisfied emotion, ignored resentment, no, misery.
His voice tasted like the thick coffee that steamed from the cup.
Waiting, thick, steaming.
His eyes, dry.
They had cried too much to have run dry.
Even though it's just the two of us here and though neither of us is talking at the moment, both you and I can never find silence.
"Oh? I think you're more deaf than blind."
I'm too deaf that I'm hearing noise all the time.
"I envy you, you know. I envy what you see."
I might be standing a meter from him, maybe nearer, maybe farther. I don't know.
I can't see.
"What I see, why do they feel so real, yet touch them . . ."
I can't see, but I'm not blind.
I chose not to be.
". . . I cannot."
I opened my mouth for the first time, maybe the last.
"Because you're blind."