Disabled Chronicles, No. 291
The hem of her robe caught my eye from the periphery through the plate glass. The yellow floral pattern wrestled with the egregious wind, to keep covered the curves the mischievous gusts insisted on uncovering.
I’d just got done asking the deli manager to help me get a cup of water, which I was ready to pay for, when she announced that water was free.
Placing the chilled, covered and strawed cup on the counter facing the window, I thanked the manager, then began lowering my chair to meet the cup. I had a time crunch, to make it home before 4pm to await my mid-day Aide to pee and then eat dinner.
No sooner had I began chugging down the obnoxiously cold water than her robe, caught my attentions.
It was thin; the type of robe you’d throw on while you waited for your clothes to dry in the dryer while you sat out in your balcony. Nothing serious, or substantial but very fine, soft.
She wore it over a white fitted blouse and light grey pencil skirt. The wind brought to light her reckless curves while she tried to hang onto her floppy black sun hat. The look on her sweetheart face was cool, confident, her melanin was brown sugar and dreams.
She was gorgeous. I imagined her to be the type of woman whose lover, out of gluttony or necessity (perhaps both?), had to take time to examine the dips and swells of her entirety. Starting over if they even thought they missed anything. I imagined her to be the type of woman to relish the worship she knew she was due.
I turned my head and saw the stubbled Hispanic man’s impossibly blue eyes track her too. Maybe thinking the same nostril flaring thoughts I was.
What must he think, I wondered as he looked at me as I peered down into my lap? Did he know I was admiring her body and not just her clothes? Did he see my impure thoughts? Did he even think disabled people have any? Did he realize I was having some startling thoughts about him in that moment?
I closed my eyes, listening to the dance my heart was doing in my chest.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
If I could have raised my hands, I would have placed them both over my heart.
This heart; this mangled, muscled mass within my rib cage that holds on to hope and lost causes in one breath. It propels me forwards and keeps me stuck. It gives tirelessly and waters its own feet – it’s speaking.
It began talking of tales of surrender. Singing to me songs of joy buried beneath sorrow. It reminded me to be, that I always had space just to Be.
Tears threatened at this understanding and I had to parent myself to keep it together.
In this moment, with this dark-haired blue eyed man, we, admiring this gorgeous woman, my heart, took its pleasure in this void.