The Eyes and Ears of Love (19 page)

Dorothy giggles.

“I have crow’s feet just like my mom does, but the only difference is I’m twenty-three and she’s in her fifties.” He pauses. “I have regular, plain brown eyes just like my Italian relatives.” He sighs, “And I have this huge brown mole on my jaw. It’s hideous! I feel like everyone is constantly looking at it.”

Dorothy half-smiles.

He continues, “Oh, and I’m cursed with a butt chin. Of all places to have a dimple, I’m born with one right on my chin!” He chuckles. “I’m just an ordinary looking person.” He waits for Dorothy to say something.

“Nurse Lena?” Dorothy shouts.

“What? What now?” Nurse Lena sprawls ahead toward them in the hallway, breathing heavily.

“What does Mr. Menichelli look like? I mean, in detail. If you were describing Mr. Menichelli to a sketch artist, how would you describe him?”

“Well,” Nurse Lena says, pausing. Dorothy imagines she is sizing Bentley up. “Well, he’s tall, with fantastic posture. More people should stand tall like he does.” She pauses again. “He’s got gorgeous hazel eyes. They light up when he speaks and they’re very expressive. His hair is curly, natural brown, with sun-kissed golden highlights. It’s a color women pay a lot of money for at a hair salon,” she adds, laughing. Bentley chuckles too.  “He has a prominent jaw line. His face is young, but also wise.”

Dorothy hears Bentley pat Lena’s back as he says, “thank you.”

She waits until Lena is gone again before saying, “Now, I have two completely different images in my head of the way you look. The way you described yourself was entirely different than the way she described you.” She pauses, “I think you too, have some work do to do on yourself, not just Hannah. Enjoy the features you can see because you should cherish your ability to look at your reflection in a mirror.”

“How do you see me? Despite the descriptions you just heard, I mean.”

She moves away from her bedroom door and closer to him and holds out her arms in front of her to find his shoulders. “I see a tall man, a confident man. I see a man with broad shoulders, a strong man.” She continues, “I imagine a man with modesty in his eyes, and they sure are beautiful in my imagination.” She brushes her finger along his jaw and her hand tingles. “I see dominant facial features, not a flaw in sight.” She uses both hands to feel the side of his face. “A man with facial hair?” she asks, astonished. “I did not expect that! But I like it.” She moves even closer, close enough to feel the warmth of his body mixing with the warmth of hers. She’s breathing harder than usual, and he’s stopped breathing altogether. She gathers a fistful of the fabric of his shirt, pulling him slightly toward her body. He doesn’t resist. She deeply inhales his scent of his deodorant and the smell of laundry detergent on his shirt. “Good hygiene,” she says looking up at him.

He makes a quiet noise of approval; she imagines he is smiling at her.

“Good night Bentley,” she whispers, letting go of his shirt. Her hand is sweating. “Come on, Aurora,” she says. Dorothy slinks into her room, Aurora following at her heels.

A moment passes before she hears a knock on her door. Dorothy opens it and knows its Bentley, even though he doesn’t speak right away.

“Have lunch with me,” he breathes, seeming to just have found his voice.

“Is that a question or a demand?” she asks.

“A suggestion.”

“A suggestion?”

“Yes.”

Her stomach ties in a knot. “Sure,” she blurts out. “What time?”

“Noon.”

“Ok.” She shuts the door and lies on the bed wrapping Aurora up in her arms, stroking her lovingly.

The next day, at noon, Nurse Lena escorts Dorothy to the kitchen. Dorothy takes a seat in front of the kitchen island on a swivel bar stool.

“Dorothy, I’m glad you made it!” he says.

She taps her fingers along the island counter.
He sounds excited to see me!
She thinks.

“What are we having?” he asks.

“I don’t know?” she asks, puzzled.
Didn’t he invite me?
She thinks.

“You don’t know?” he asks.

“No.” She adjusts her posture.

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t told me what we’re having.”

“Why would I know what we’re having?”

“Because you’re cooking,” he says matter-of-factly.

Dorothy stands up. “The hell, I am.”

“Come on!”

“No.” she snaps.

“Why won’t you just try?”

“Because you’re here. You can see. You should make the food.”

“How about a bit of a game?”

“No,” she says emphatically.

Bentley spins the bar stool around so Dorothy faces him. Her legs are slightly spread, and Bentley centers himself between them.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

She hears the rustling of his clothing, then he hands her something. It is a thin piece of material, slick to the touch. She recognizes it as a tie and holds it up with both hands.

“Do you want me to hang myself with this?”

He laughs. “No, blindfold me.” He guides her hands to his head as he kneels in front of her. She wraps the tie around his head, feeling his bristly hair under her fingertips. “Tighter,” he demands. She knots the tie twice.

“Now what?” she asks, adding, “Do you want to be whipped too?”

He chuckles. “You’re relentless. Now we cook,” he insists. “We’re both blind, so we can learn from one another. What should we have?”

Dorothy doesn’t respond.

He touches her arm and says, “Come on, I’m blind now, I need some kind of queue from you!”

“Fine.” She pauses, thinking. “We need a pan and butter. Lots of butter.”

“What are we making?” Bentley pats down the counters to find the butter he left out.

“Grilled cheese sandwiches. My dad always told me it’s the best starter food for beginner chefs,” she says, bitterness seeping out of her voice before she can stop it.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just haven’t talked about or thought about my dad since I came to the Garden.”

“Where is your dad?”

“A grave,” she says bluntly.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, it’s fine. He died a long time ago.”

“Was he a chef?”

“Yeah, the best chef I’ve ever known.” She pauses. “Why do you want me to cook so badly?”

Bentley doesn’t answer right away, and Dorothy can feel the tension in the silence.

Finally, he says, “I just thought it’s a good lesson to learn. You need to know your way around the kitchen to survive. It is a necessity.”

“So, this is therapy?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what this is, therapy,” he says, sounding relieved.

“It didn’t sound like you were asking for a therapy session last night.”

“What did it sound like?”

“A date,” she says, the two words hanging in the air between them.  “But, it can’t possibly be a date.”

“Why can’t it be?”

“You’re making me cook.”

“So?”

“It’s like me paying the bill if we were at a restaurant.”

He argues, “But we’re both cooking.”

“Then it’s like we’re splitting the bill.”

“Ok, so we’re going Dutch. What’s the problem with that?”

“That means we’re just friends.”

Bentley is silent again.

Dorothy feels the counter for the loaf of bread. After several attempts of removing the zip tie, her frustration grows with several loud grunts. “This damn zip tie.”

“Here let me try,” Bentley insists.

Dorothy slides the loaf over. She can hear the bag crinkle and finally his growing frustration.

“Got it!” he says, sliding the loaf back to her.

She feels the zip tie still wrapped around the bag, but also a giant hole ripped in the middle. “This is very wasteful.”

“What?”

“The bread will go stale now.”

As Bentley begins to talk, Aurora interrupts, jarring him out of his thought process.

They both begin buttering their bread slices.

“Did you just cream your thumb with butter like I just did?” he asks, breaking the awkward silence.

Dorothy tries to conceal her smile. “You buttered your thumb?”

“Yes.”

She begins laughing hysterically.

“Hey! Don’t laugh! It’s hard to know where the corners of the toast are.”

Bentley then helps to open booth slices of cheese from the tricky wrappers. He feels for Dorothy’s hand and gives her a slice.

Dorothy tries plopping the cheese onto the toast and accidentally drops the slice of cheese and a
slap
sound in heard.

“You just dropped a slice of cheese on my shoe, didn’t you?”

Dorothy clenches her teeth. “Well, I can’t be entirely certain that it landed on your shoe.” She hears what sounds like, Bentley peeling the cheese off his shoe.

“Well, I’m certain that it did land on my shoe!”

“Sorry!” she shrugs.

“No, it’s fine! My shoe will just be a mouse trap.”

Dorothy laughs. “Now, that’s a funny joke!”

Bentley opens another slice of cheese and places it on the bread for her.

“Is there any oil in the cupboards?” she asks. She hears cabinets opening and closing. “Are you peeking?” she accuses him.

“No! I wouldn’t do that!” he says, sarcastically while handing her a small bottle of oil.

Dorothy slicks a pan with oil before placing the sandwiches in it. She feels the heat of the pan near her arms, and Dorothy feels Bentley’s breath as he stands behind her.

“We need to flip it,” Dorothy acknowledges.

“Already?”

She does her best to muster an incredulous face, eyebrows raised. “You’re questioning me?”

“No, flip it,” he says, amusement in his tone. “I shouldn’t have dared to challenge you.”

Dorothy holds the pan handle with her left hand, and right as she lifts the pan to flip the sandwich, Bentley places his hand atop hers. She startles dropping the hot pan on the floor with a loud
clang
. Bentley removes the tie. Dorothy suddenly gasps, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth.

“You want to order a pizza?” he asks, dumbfounded, breaking the silence.

Dorothy and Bentley collapse on the floor laughing. 

***

After the pizza is delivered, Bentley and Dorothy sit across the table from one another in the dining room with a glass of lemonade. Dorothy devours a bite of pepperoni pizza while Bentley watches, taking a sip of his drink. It’s light, crisp, and delicious.

“Why do you think you'll never date again?” Bentley asks out of the blue.

“Where did that come from?” she mumbles with her mouth full.

“When we first met, you said you’ll never date again.”

“Oh,” she sighs, seeming to recall it. “No one wants to date a blind girl,” she says sternly.

“You act like being blind is baggage in a relationship.”

“Well, I don't know,” she murmurs. “Isn’t it?” Her eyes move in Bentley’s direction, puzzled, darkening.

“I wouldn’t know firsthand; I've never been in a relationship with a blind woman before.”

“See!”

“…Because I haven't been given the opportunity to do so.”

“So, dating a blind woman is an opportunity?”

He considers how to answer her. He decides to be honest. “Well, it has its perks.”

“Such as?” Her eyes are intense, probing, demanding, as they dart left and right, analyzing him

“Self-confidence,” he says. “Nothing’s sexier to a man than a woman with confidence.”

“Confidence? That's the last quality blind people have.” She chuckles, seemingly amused.  

“Why do you say that?”

“To have confidence is to be independent. Blind people depend on everyone.”

“True,” he agrees. “But only at the beginning,” he pauses momentarily. “What were you always taught before you entered into a relationship while growing up?”

“You mean which clichés was I told?”

“Sure, if that's how you look at it.”

“You have to be happy with yourself before you can make someone else happy,” she says with an automated voice.

“Right!”

“So. . . your point is what?”

“Would you say confidence is the root of happiness?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose. If you have confidence, you have high self-esteem, and if you have high self-esteem you're generally happy. Happy with yourself, that is.”

“You can't begin a relationship and expect dependency from your partner. The only people who can expect that dependency were usually already in a relationship before going blind,” he continues. “A sighted person doesn't owe you anything, so you achieve independence and self-confidence before dating and then you'll be the sexiest person in the room,” he adds.