* * *
I met him at one of those conferences Mom made me go to. She thought it’d be good for me to meet others in my “situation.” Like we were going to pour our hearts out in a healing circle or something. At least we got free food.
George introduced himself with a quick, limp handshake. I had been sitting alone at the banquet table. A holster for his white cane bounced at his hip as he circled the table and blinked at me as he sat down. He had one of those prism glasses that were supposed to make you see better. They made him look like he had multiple eyes—fly eyes. He wore his blindness as if it had already happened.
We were both seventeen, but George had the smooth, pinched face and slicked-back hair of a twelve-year-old accountant. No surprise when he said he wanted to major in accounting in college.
“Sounds boring, but if you’re into it, cool. I’m gonna wrestle like Matt Hamill.”
His many eyes blinked at me. “Who?”
— “Loser” Monkey Bicycle
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You can read the full story at Monkey Bicycle.
© Cristina Hartmann