sunday witness

he was blind; she was barefoot. he was walking up the street; she was walking down.

i've seen him before, swiping his white stick side across our sidewalk-less street. i've never seen her before. he's never seen me.

i've seen him walking at night, and perhaps that terrifies her because night is a season of others not-seeing. but what is night to him? 

i didn't see them meet and neither did he. his exclamations and laughter pulled my head up from my book and when i looked, i saw his face bury in her neck and his body take a deep, happy inhale. he knew that neck; he knew that smell.

they kissed like he could see her face. he collapsed his stick and took her hand and they walked up the street together.

(i didn't try to write like natalia ginzburg (because i can't), but on reflection, it occurred to me that i sound like i'm imitating one of her essays: "he and i." i'm okay with that, since it might get you to read one of my favorite essays of all time.)