11-7-04 - 2:39 p.m. fake: he's gone blind, now. his eyesight got progressively worse as the years went by. you didn't know about this. you had fallen out of touch with him. but now, there he is. blind. he doesn't know you're there. you've spotted him from across the diner. you heard his laugh, first, that one laugh he had that was deep and always made his eyes water just a little. he listens with his head tilted toward whomever is talking. his wife, or that lady you assume is his wife, guides his left hand to the plate of hamburger and fries just placed in front of him. he nods. you can see his fingers tracing the plate, brushing over the tops of the fries, feeling the sesame seeds on the bun. he always cut his hamburgers in two. you wait for him to do it again, to see if he does it or if his wife takes the knife for him. that idea, that picture, that woman taking his knife, cutting his hamburger for him, makes you sad. the man you knew, the man with sight, was prouder than that. but he has aged. and so have you. you've divorced. you've moved three times. you've told your family you're happy, where you are now, at your job, with that new man. he reaches for the knife. picks it up. rolls it around in his palm. cuts his own hamburger. you want to leave. you want to be happy. previous - next