Tread Softly on My Dreams

There were very few things I couldn't resist in my life, and a book sale was one of them. That's how I found myself wandering into a quaint little bookshop that promised at least seventy percent off every item because it was going out of business within the next week. It was a warm Saturday morning in late May, and I'd just taken the last final exam of my third year in college two days before. I was officially free of the pressures of school and could finally begin to enjoy the long summer ahead of me. And what was the first thing I did when the academic shackles were loosed? Get distracted by a bookstore sale on my way to go grocery shopping. 

It was just like me, getting lost in the smell of paperback pages and novels begging to be opened. I was surprised that there weren't many people taking advantage of the excellent deals. But of course, this was the city that never sleeps, I thought. No one here has a New York minute to spare in the search for new reading material. 

I strolled through the shelves of neatly organized books, absentmindedly running my fingers over the covers as I walked. I paused at a display of new nonfiction titles and noticed a book written about Carl Jung's life. As a psychology major, I loved to devour anything on the leaders and great minds in the field. I scanned the cover and thumbed through the pages, thinking myself alone and quickly becoming engrossed in the text until I sensed movement in my periphery.

Looking up from my reading, I saw a man flipping through a book of his own. He looked young, maybe early twenties, and boasted a head of beachy blonde hair, not too long but also not extremely short. He stood much taller than me, at least 6 feet, and his blue eyes were focused intently at the text in front of him. I traced my line of vision along his body and stopped as I noticed what should have been immediately obvious: he was an amputee. A prosthetic leg was evident under the right side of his khaki shorts, and he rested his right hand on a cane. 

I stared at the man, but not for the reasons I was sure most people gawked at him. Rather, I marveled at how handsome he was and at how he was confident enough to wear shorts that exposed this bionic part of him. Although I kept my own difference hidden within a pair of jeans and flat-soled Vans, I too was missing a part of me. Because of an uncommon birth defect, I ended up having my left foot amputated when I was a baby. What was left of my leg ended inches below my knee, but I'd spent almost two decades learning to walk comfortably with an artificial foot. If you didn't already know about my leg, you wouldn't have noticed anything different about me when you met me. And hardly anyone in my circle knew about my disability. 

"Car accident when I was twelve," the young man said when he noticed me staring at the metal rod that stood where his right leg should be. I looked up at him then, caught off-guard by the fact that he'd seen me ogling him. "That's how I lost it." 

He looked up from his book and smiled. "I'm Max. So what brings you here?" 

"I didn't mean to stare," I said, flustered. "I just don't see too many cripples around here, at least not lately." There. It was a "cripple" comment, a kind of solidarity that acknowledged our connection via the parts we were both missing. I knew the term "cripple" was offensive and not politically correct, but I figured that if anyone could get away with using it, it was a disabed girl like me. But then I remembered that he didn't know I was like him. 

The man's pleasant expression quickly changed into a scowl. I tried to find an apology, but he spoke before I had the chance. 

"'Cripple?'"

"No!" I said a little bit too loudly. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry, I think we started off on the wrong foot." 

Oh, me and my awful puns. Did I seriously think I was funny? I chuckled lightly, so apparently I did. 

The man gave me a blank stare, looking taken aback by my rude joke.

I put on a sober expression in response. 

"I can't help it. I always put my foot in my mouth." I broke out into a huge smile. 

Jesus, Brynn, stop it, I thought to myself. But years of using humor to make people feel less uncomfortable around me now surfaced at the most inconvenient time. 

The man, now growing visibly annoyed, put down the book he was perusing and started to walk away. I noticed the awkward limp as he dragged his artificial leg along. 

"Wait!" I called after him, gently reaching out for his shoulder in a desperate attempt to fix my wrongs. 

"Look, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to come off as an insensitive bitch. And I definitely didn't intend to hurt you."

"No, I get it," he said, wistfully. "I know your type. You're just like all the other pretty girls, too high and mighty to be talking to gimps like me. I get it. Even the ones who seem intelligent enough to actually hold a conversation." He nodded towards the Jung book I was still holding. 

 I stumbled for words. "It's just...I know what you're going through and I know what it's like."  

He stopped and turned to face me again. "You know what what's like?" 

Wait...had he just called me pretty only seconds before? He thought I was a Pretty Girl, perfectly formed and better than normal. Didn't he? Is that what he thought? He didn't think of me as being in the same broken-bodied category as him. This was new. And I liked it. I couldn't tell him about my foot now....

"I...uh...I know a lot of people in your...situation," I managed. "I'm doing my senior thesis project on the psychology of individuals with physical disabilities and how their, um, limitations factor into their sense of Self."

Way to pull that out of your ass, Brynn, I thought. In truth, I'd had no idea what I wanted to focus my thesis on, and I had at least the summer to think about it before I finally decided. But I really didn't want to make things worse with the handsome guy in front of me. It wasn't every day that my chronically single self met someone as goodlooking as this Max here. 

His features visibly softened, and I suppressed a sigh of relief. 

"I guess we should start over," I started. "I'm Brynn, 20 years young and a psych major over at NYU. I live in a small apartment off-campus with my pet goldfish Timothy and more magazines than I can read in a lifetime. I would never hurt or offend anyone intentionally, so I'm sorry about this whole misunderstanding....Now you go." 

He held out his hand for me to shake. "Max, like I said before. I'm a freelance writer, I'm new to the Big Apple, and as we've already established, I have one leg." 

I smiled wryly (and a little bit guiltily). "It's nice to meet you, Max. Welcome to New York."

"Well, I better get running...." His unreadable expression gave way to a smile. "That was a joke, you know. You're allowed to laugh. I'm not completely humorless."

"Oh," I said. I still wasn't willing to risk a hearty laugh and the possibility of upsetting him again. All I knew in that moment was that I had to get to know this strange man, who went from nearly walking away from me to cracking jokes in a matter of mere minutes. And he was the first amputee I'd met who was close to my age and might understand me on a different level than most other people. 

"So, um...about your thesis," he interrupted my thoughts, running his left hand through his hair in a way that was both charming and slightly awkward. "Is there anything I can help you with? Anything you need to know about my leg?" 

"Yeah. I mean, it'd be great if I could maybe interview you....?"

"Sure. That'd be cool. Coffee?"

"I like coffee," I said. "When?" 

"Are you busy right now?"

And just like that, I was going on a date with Max.