2022 Watty Award Winner ✨
In which a blind girl and a disfigured army vet attempt to find love and belonging in a big bad world.
***
Olivia Harris is blind, and that's just the way it is. Naviga...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
OLIVIA HARRIS LIKES to think that she's pretty decent at reading people. You know, all things considered.
The guy sitting across from her, for example, has a low, raspy kinda voice. Her first impression (after the first first impression, in which he was a jackass) was that he sounded tall. This was confirmed when she took hold of his—firm and muscular, let it be noted—arm and heard that low, raspy voice coming from all the way up there.
He's also quiet, or awkward, or maybe both. Or maybe, more than maybe, he's never met a blind person before and he doesn't know what to do with himself. Typical.
She totally needed this kick of caffeine after sitting through another exhilarating support group session at the Rehab hospital. She's been attending those meetings (by force) for like the last seven years. Frankly, she's tired of listening to other disabled people bitch about how hard it is being a disabled person (sorry, person with a disability) but of course her parents insist on it, because "Peer support is incredibly valuable!"
Frick. Anyways.
Iraq. Explosion. Doesn't seem like he wants to talk about it. Gotcha. "You from Rawlings?"
"Yeah, I grew up here. You?"
"Same." To her right, she can hear the whir of the coffee-grinder. Door swinging open, a heavy pair of footsteps, an older female voice at the counter. "Which high-school did you go to? I went to Rawlings High, so, if you say Fairfield then unfortunately I don't think we can be friends..."
Rawlings, Alberta. South-west of Calgary, population of 100,000. There are five high-schools, but Rawlings High and Fairfield are the biggest, and their rivalry is renowned.
He lets out a small, low, raspy laugh. Like the gritty texture of sandpaper, but smooth too. Sandpaper and cream. Low, and raspy. Damn, did she mention that? "I went to Cloverdale. French immersion." More to himself, he huffs, "Christ, that was a while ago."
"How old are you? Wait, let me guess." Vocal quality, musculature. "Mid to late twenties."
Lightness at the edge of his voice, like he's smiling, even just a teeny bit. "Twenty-five. You're... what, twenty-two?"
"Correct. But you can actually see me, so you're at an unfair advantage." She finds her fork, to the right of the plate, to the left of the mug. Karla and the others always make sure to leave things in the same place every time. "But generally I'm a pretty good guesser, so..." Trying to be as decorous as possible, she begins prying off pieces of the warm, gooey pastry, then lifts a forkful up to melt in her mouth.
