Blinded (4 page)

“I didn’t see anybody complaining.”

She smiles, perfect lips parting to reveal perfect teeth. Nothing about her looks fake—just nearly flawless.

You finish your drink and know you need another. Because if you seriously think about what you’re doing talking with this woman, you’ll start second-guessing yourself. Instead, you want something—you need something—to coat over your conscience like the ceaseless, seductive beats and orange glow that cover you.

Y
OU HAVE ALWAYS HAD A WEAKNESS
for a pretty face. Some might say that all guys are the same, that they’re all pigs, that they only want one thing. But you’re not like that. You’re not one of them. But you do have a weakness for something alluring, something appealing, something that takes you off guard and that makes your mind and your heart stop.

You can remember the first time you met Lisa. She stopped you even though you pretended not to notice her and kept walking and kept looking ahead and kept talking.

A younger man in an easier world. That was the setting and the climate. College and classes and dreams of a bigger and better world.

God if I could just go back just for a second just for a moment
.

When a kiss was the only thing you wanted. When the
cares of a hundred other causes and responsibilities didn’t rule your world.

You passed her on a college sidewalk. She was like a ladybird settling by, glancing, then flying off.

She was a science major and you were a business major and she might have been one of a hundred other cute girls that captivated your mind. But something about her was different, stood out, got your heart and your head thinking and spinning.

You were a sophomore and she was a junior.

You came from Denver, Colorado, and she came from Schaumburg, Illinois.

She had a boyfriend and you were just coming off a bad relationship.

Things have a way of working out, don’t they? The map of a relationship and a love is never easy to navigate, never predictable, never easy to track. But somehow that single passing on a sidewalk signaled a different path you’d take.

Brown eyes that conquered your heart and soul.

Enough to make you start asking questions about who she was and where she hung out. Enough to get you to pass by her again, to finally stop and talk with her, to get to know her.

And so many years later, you’re staring at different eyes, and you have a tinge of guilt because you know they’re not the eyes you should be looking at. These are not the eyes that should be moving you. And no matter how much you drink or
think or rationalize or bury or disregard, you know that those eyes don’t belong to you and can never belong to you.

And any sane man would run far away.

This isn’t a sweet college student on a sidewalk in North Carolina who has suddenly captured your attention.

And this can never be a sweet memory you’ll think of with fondness a decade from now.

“Y
OU HAVE NICE HANDS
.”

Jasmine’s comment surprises you. For a second you look at her to see if she is joking.

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve never thought of my hands as ‘nice.’ ”

“They’re hot.”

You laugh now, thinking she’s making fun of you. “Come on.”

“No, I’m serious. Hands are a big deal to me. And the thing I always check out on men—their forearms.”

You’re looking at your hands and forearms as if it’s the first time you’ve ever studied them. In fact, it might be.

“Some guys—they have flabby hands and forearms. Like baby fat or something. You don’t. Yours are very nice.”

The smile on your lips can’t go away now. Even if she’s just playing with your mind, she’s doing a great job at it. Have a drink and hear a compliment, and boy, does it do wonders for the spirit.

Her long, slender hands touch yours, first caressing your palm, then feeling your wrist and forearm.

“You have strong hands, very sexy.”

“Thank you,” you say.

This is crazy
.

You want to return the compliment, but everything that comes to mind seems inappropriate.

Is it bad to compliment a beautiful woman and just tell her the truth?

You don’t want to think what’s right and what’s wrong.

“So what’s your favorite part on a woman?”

You inhale and laugh.

“Come on. It can be anything. It doesn’t have to be the thing most guys would say. Be creative.”

“I like a lot of things.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, the first thing I noticed about you—when you first sat down, I couldn’t help but notice—you know, when you crossed your legs …”

Jasmine’s smile fills her face, and her eyes light up. “You’re a leg man.”

“Sure, yeah, I guess.”

She nods.

“That wasn’t very creative,” you say.

“But it was true, right?”

“Sure.”

She’s studying you again, looking your way with eyes that seem curious and amused.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

“How old are you?”

You let out a chuckle. “How old do I look?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, let’s see—midthirties. Right?”

“Thirty-seven.”

You don’t mind her knowing your age. You have never felt like a thirty-something to begin with. The number revealed on your driver’s license doesn’t designate how old you feel or act.

“You want to guess my age?” she asks.

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“Give me a break. It’s fun.”

“Twenty-five,” you say, a general round number for an age.

“Close. Twenty-six.”

You’re glad to hear she didn’t say twenty-one. She still looks younger than she really is.

“Okay, so look, Michael. Here’s the deal. If you have a thought, any thought, tonight, tell me. Tell me at that very moment. Okay?”

“Sure.”

She laughs. “You say that
so
unconvincingly. You need to relax. Come on. I swear I’m not going to hurt you. Just—I know there are thoughts you’re not saying. Maybe it takes you a little time to warm up.”

“This isn’t something I’m particularly used to.”

“Then I’m giving you a golden opportunity tonight. Let me teach you.”

Teach me what?

Once again she takes your hand in both of her own. “You’re so cute, you know that?”

It’s been a while since another woman called you cute. Since your hand was held deliberately and not as an afterthought, as if someone wanted to hold it, as if it meant something to them.

You feel a soft, slow tingle begin to smolder deep below.

Maybe it’s the booze. You’ve ordered a few drinks and have lost track.

That’s not really it, is it?

Her touch, her eyes, her lips, her hair, almost everything about her …

That’s what’s doing this. What’s causing this.

You’re beginning to really lose yourself.

You can’t help it.

“Relax,” Jasmine says. “Everything will be fine.”

Y
OU
’
RE NOT VERY GOOD AT RELAXING
.

You can’t remember the last time you took a vacation.

You always have to be doing something. Anything.

In the morning you take out the dog. He’s Lisa’s dog and makes that clear. He’s a Lhasa Apso and seems a little annoyed at your existence but still relies on you to take him out to do his morning duty.

You make your coffee and your quick breakfast and you read the paper. You find yourself interested in items that have absolutely nothing to do with your life. But you read with fascination about politics and finances and sports teams and the box office reports and the star news and the latest gadgets and the local Chicago news.

It takes you about an hour to get to work, forty-five
minutes if you’re lucky or early, an hour and a half on bad days. You listen to talk radio and find others’ opinions on things fascinating. You’ve grown used to the voices and the programs and find them more interesting than most other things in your life.

There are the people you work with and deal with and pass by and share life’s anecdotes with.

Then there is the work, for which you take a chunk of your life and break it up and scatter it around like pieces of bread for birds.

You’ve been working on this merger for over half a year.

Late nights and weekends have been devoted to plans and numbers and options and opportunities.

All swirling around the ceramic toilet bowl of emptiness. Going to a sewer of nothingness.

You wanted this deal—strike that, you
needed
this deal— and you busted your butt to make it happen.

And on the faith front, well, things haven’t been particularly exemplary. If faith were a class, you’d be getting a solid D.

Come on, God. Give me a break down here. Give me a little help. Can’t you? I’m not asking for much and I never ask for much and I do my own thing day after day putting in time and putting in energy and this is what I get?

Sometimes you wonder if you should expect anything. If you deserve anything.

Sometimes you deserve something. Don’t you? For all the
hard work and the emotional energy and the busyness of life, don’t you sometimes deserve to take a break and just have a little fun?

N
O FRIENDS
. N
O LAST NAME
. No profession or even personal information. The past hour has been spent talking about the most trivial of topics: types of vodka, expensive shoes, a woman she sees and knows and can’t stand, music. But in the midst of the small talk, Jasmine throws out boldly personal questions without blinking. After finishing her third martini, she excuses herself. You sit and wait and after fifteen minutes you begin to wonder if the conversation and your fear of opening up got to her.

The place is getting more crowded. So many twenty-and thirty-somethings with their lean figures and expensive clothes and smiles and conversations. You try to remember the last time you were at a place like this. When was the last time you were out at all besides for a work function? Most of
going out for work means steak dinners and an occasional drink afterwards, but not to some hip and trendy place like this. You wonder what Lisa would think of it.