The Blind. A.F. Brady

with lacy edges and bells hanging off it. The final straw is a framed plaque of faux reclaimed wood with intentionally worn writing and painted flowers that reads Live, Laugh, Love. I can feel the bile and undigested lunch rising in my throat, and I hesitate to stop myself from projectile vomiting directly into her perfectly combed hair. The look of disgust on my face must be apparent because Julie reaches out to touch my arm and ask me if I’m okay.

      “Sam? You alright?” I yank my arm away from her and nudge her out of the way as I take a seat in Julie’s desk chair. There’s a scent diffuser somewhere in here, and it smells like baby powder.

      “Tashawndra?” She hangs her head, and I lower mine to catch her eyes. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

      “Can’t Miss Julie tell you?” She hides her face in her hands. Her hair is twisted in ropes and dreads of various lengths and rigidity, some poking straight up out of her scalp and others falling forward into her eyes. She twists them when she gets nervous, and when she’s feeling happy, she ties ribbons and strings to the ends. She’s pulling at one of the strings now, a yellow piece of yarn tied to a dread on the left side of her face.

      “I’d like to hear it from you, if you’re willing to tell me. I want to know what you think happened.” The yarn pops off between her fingers.

      Tashawndra releases a snort like a bull about to charge. “I was in Miss Julie’s group, minding my own business, and out of nowhere, I look over and I see that Barry is staring at Miss Julie, and his mind ain’t right, and I know what he’s thinking.”

      “What was he thinking?” I ask. Julie is hovering over us, blushing as her name is mentioned.

      “He was thinking he like to sink his teeth into those legs!” She gestures toward Julie’s panty-hosed legs, exposed beneath her admittedly work-appropriate skirt. Julie involuntarily bends and covers her knees with her hands.

      I can’t help smiling as I listen to this. “And then what did you do?”

      “I threw my coffee cup at him.” Tashawndra leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. She is braless as usual and her pendulous breasts fall into her armpits.

      “Was there coffee in your coffee cup?” I’m nearly laughing as I ask.

      “No! It was empty. I should have slapped his face.”

      “What’s going on between you and Barry?”

      “Well, nothing now! But before he decided to get all inappropriate with the counselor, we was seeing each other. Been a couple of weeks. He brung me flowers from the table in the lunchroom last week. And before that, he gave me the rest of his pack of cigarettes. He told me I was the most beautiful girl he ever saw, and we had lunch together and we smoked on the smoking balcony together, too. But all that over now!”

      “Anything else going on between the two of you?” Sexual contact between patients is strictly forbidden at Typhlos, although it’s nearly impossible to enforce. With the growing number of patients, it’s hard enough to keep track of where everyone is all the time, let alone try to figure out what everyone is doing. Patients have sex with their roommates at night, whether they’re gay or not, in the bathroom stalls, out on the smoking balcony in broad daylight. Sometimes right in the open in the hallways and group rooms. Tashawndra has lost privileges and been isolated because of sexual misconduct many times before, but Barry has never been her partner.

      “Nah. I know I’m not allowed to bang nobody while we doing treatment here.” She fiddles with the yellow string, and I believe her that they weren’t having sex. She seems to care about him, and she rarely has sex with people she cares about.

      “Good. I’m glad we’re making progress on that front. And you know you can’t throw anything at anyone, whether they’re looking at another girl or not, correct?”

      “Yeah, I know.” She shoots her arm out in an aw-shucks gesture and throws the yellow string onto the floor. “He gave me these yarns for my hair, too.”

      I pick up the string and hold it in my fist. “Tashawndra, I know it hurts when someone you like looks at someone else, but it’s important to react appropriately. Do you want to say anything to Julie?” Julie’s been leaning over us like an eager water boy during the halftime huddle. Her mouth hung open as she observed our interaction, and now that she’s being addressed, she pops up straight and composes herself.

      “I’m sorry I got jealous in your group, Miss Julie. I know people gonna look at you because you beautiful, and I know it don’t mean that I can throw things at anybody.” She tugs at her dreads.

      “Thank you, Tashawndra. And I think you’re beautiful, too.” Tashawndra blushes as a shy smile spreads across her face, and she pulls her shoulder up to her chin.

      “You gonna talk to Barry about this?” I ask her.

      “Yeah, I guess I could forgive him.”

      “I’m glad to hear that.” I hand her back the yellow string, and she ties it into one of the dreads flopping down over her eyes. We walk out of Julie’s office together, and I take a deep breath of institutional air to clear my nose of the insufferable scent from her diffuser. It’s days like this that make me feel like a zookeeper, and I’m in awe of the level of shit I can continue to tolerate.

NOVEMBER 26TH, 12:45 A.M.

      I find myself at Nick’s again, waiting for David to show up. Lucas and I came together, but he is too drunk to function, so he parked himself at one end of the bar, staring at his phone, while I schmooze with our buddies. Everyone at Nick’s thinks that Lucas and I are the perfect couple, and it’s a very delicate dance, because we know this perception, and without speaking, we do everything we can to uphold it. Even if I’m afraid he might end up killing me when we are alone, in front of others, we put on the show that we need to put on to pretend to ourselves that each of us is fine, and that together we are the ideal couple: the beacon of domestic bliss that shines amid the crumbling failures of their past. It gives hope, and I am in the business of giving hope.

      If I told them that he beats me, or that he had sex with a faceless hooker in the back room of a porn store earlier today, or that he is currently wolfing oxycodone in the bathroom, it would ruin their night, and I certainly don’t want that. This perception that Lucas and I are perfect…it helps me believe it. And it’s one of the last strings I have holding my life together.

      David just walked into the bar, and he’s scanning the room trying to find me. I’m waving with one hand while drinking a Jack and Coke with the other. He’s probably the only person who knows the truth about me, the truth about Lucas and some truth about me and Lucas. Our offices share a wall, which means he can hear everything that goes on in mine. When I’m throwing up in the garbage can, or crying into my coffee, he tends to ask questions. Over the years, instead of lying to him, I’ve let him in, and he hasn’t used it against me yet.

      David is my best friend. Not just my work best friend, but the closest thing I have to a real-life best friend. I’ve never slept with him, although maybe I should. He has a crush on me, I can tell, and I flirt with him and humor him just enough to make the crush continue, but I’m careful to never allow it to turn into something that would require reciprocity. Just the way I like it. He walks over, we look at each other, and without saying anything, he drinks from the straw in my drink. I signal to Sid, the bartender, for another round.

      David and I stand too close together and gossip. We find safety in our bubble and use that safety to dismantle the other people around us. David pretends not to notice Lucas. I can’t tell if he’s being polite or defensive.

      Lucas is in a state now. His tie is partially loosened and partially tight, one of the middle buttons of his shirt is undone, his jacket is strewn in a booth somewhere, his glasses are all greased and cockeyed on top of his head, and he needs to lean on the bar for support. Despite this, he’s become even more disarming and lovable to everyone in the room. The cocktail