I can’t walk and he can’t talk.
I have CMT; he is deaf and has, well, seven other disabilities, according to his pediatrician. No matter. I wouldn’t be writing this story if he were here with me today. It’s Sunday and I miss him terribly.
It woke me up, the dream. I, or he, only had a week to live. They carried him out—what was left of him—his upper body, no arms, a head, a chest, that was it. Although my gaze was not direct, I was there. “Don’t look.” Was this how I avoided life? I didn’t look?
“I knew I was going to meet you,” I said to this handsome, tall dark man, who immediately knew me for what I was. “The dangerous sort” was what I wanted, I had told a friend, whose gentleman friend I had at the time rejected. It definitely was magic at first sight. The language...
I have lost the interest of this man. I am clearly heartbroken. I wish he would tell me point blank what he didn’t like about me, though perhaps it’s better not. I’ll just have to deduce this, which is more than painful enough.
Fact. I have not heard from him in two...