I take a slice of the bacon and feel it's thickness. About a centimeter? That should be good. I put it on the grill, then a few more, then some asparagus.
"You're looking great," says Paul. "Like, really great. It's actually really nice to see you like this."
"It must be really different from when we first met," I grin, plopping down in a deck chair across from him. "I can't even really remember when we met."
"Oh, god, you were in such a sorry state. What was it? 7, 8 years ago?"
"Was I blind when we met?"
"I believe so?" He agrees, confused.
"8 years, then. It must've been right after the accident."
"I never did get to know what happened to your eyes," he says. "You didn't talk to me or even open your mouth for almost eight months when you first became my client. I started taking my lunch during your sessions and taking other patients when I would've eaten otherwise, you were so quiet."
"You did," I nod. "I remember wondering if I was wasting your time."
"That was your first question."
"'Should I go?' And you laughed," I agree, smiling. "I'm so glad you laughed."
"So what did happen?" He asks.
"It's simple, really. Carbon monoxide." I tell him. "I tried to kill myself."
"What?"
"Yeah. You know? I put a tube around the exhaust pipe and lead it into the car, then put up all the windows and sat in the car. Eventually, I passed out, I think, but I woke up a little while later and panicked. I got out of the car and called 911 and told them what was going on, because I woke up and my vision was dark and fuzzy. By the time they got there, I was almost completely blind."
"Oh, my god. So it really was only a few weeks before I met you for the first time," he mutters. Then, slightly louder, "Why do you call it an accident if it was actually a suicide attempt?"
"Because I don't like it when people treat me different." I shrug. "It was a dark part of my life, yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm broken. And I hate it when I tell people that I did that and they treat me like I'm broken."
"I'm sorry-"
"It's fine. You didn't react like that. So it's okay."
I get up and go back to the grill, flipping the bacon.
"I'm lucky, though. Really lucky, that I didn't die like I thought I wanted to. Things are finally looking up."
"I'm glad to hear that you're not thinking of doing it again. I like having you around, you've got a really good personality."
I smile. "Thanks, man. Just don't tell me you love me or anything, alright?"
He laughs. I laugh, and I don't feel like crying. The thought of him doesn't make my heart hurt. I flip another piece of bacon, then asparagus, afraid of letting it burn.
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I plop down on the couch, listening to Paul start up his car and pull out of the driveway outside. It was a good dinner, and unfortunate that his wife didn't end up coming, but I sent him home with what was left and told him to tell her that there were no hard feelings.
I head upstairs and click on the TV in Arthur's room — The guest room, I correct myself — and then go into my bedroom so I can change into a pair of pajama pants. There's a story on the TV, a mushy feel-good fifteen minute spot about a miniature kitten that just turned one year old. The cat's owner made it a birthday cake and posted photos on Facebook.
The things that make it onto daytime television these days.
I step into my pajamas and then plop down on my bed, listening as the topic drifts away from the kitten and back toward actual news, particularly Hurricane James making it's way up the East coast of Florida. It's been brewing for a few days now.
They say it's moving fast and left 30 inches of rain in South Florida, so it sounds bad. Flooding and all that.
I get up and turn the TV off, making sure all the lights are flicked off and then pulling back the covers, falling into bed.
Turning lights on has remained a habit, even this long after losing my vision. My hand does it pretty much automatically, though sometimes I catch myself doing it and I stop myself. But then I reach to turn off the light when I leave the room, anyway.
I press my face into the pillow, pulling my blanket up around me tightly.
'I love you.'
It's not the same voice it was. The memory isn't what it's supposed to be. That's more upsetting than you'll ever know.
"I love you too. Goodnight."