Blind.

I was sitting alone, in a carriage built for over a dozen passengers, when he walks in. Tall, slim, handsome, clean cut, defined. Mid-twenties, maybe? Oh, and blind.
He was well dressed; dark blue jeans with a charcoal button down shirt, carrying a briefcase and wearing big, dark shades. Easily mistaken for "normal" sunsafe citizen, only broken by the woman wrapped around his arm, quite obviously steering him in the direction of a seat. He looked good and I wondered which one of us got dressed in the dark this morning.

Him and his partner? friend? companion? continue their witty banter as the train begins to move. She talks about some movie she wants to see and her friend who helped produce it, he grins intermittedly and occasionally puts in his two cents worth.

I want to talk to him. I am as curious as George (#curious george): Were you born like this, or was it sprung on you in a freak accident? Most importantly, what do you see? Is it black, is it.. nothing? (#can nothing be colourless?) How do you dream? Maybe every morning he resents waking up, knowing he is leaving the only place that he can encounter all five senses. Does he miss it?

I'm almost jealous of him, talking to this gorgeous woman, oblivious to all but her. Eyesight is a gift, true, but the shallowness it brings is a curse. Sure, "love is blind", but it's not. As much as we'd like to be blind to all but personality, what we see is far too blunt. We can't step past that ugly haircut/look at the nose/my god she has four chins/why must he wear that fluro lycra to every date. We prejudge people we could love, and it sucks shit.

The blind man laughs at something the woman says, and he pulls me out of my thoughts. I can't help but think that he's seen a lot more in people that I will ever be able to.

Ophelia