Open My Eyes

Seven: Through His Eyes

I shook my thoughts away violently. I was acting ridiculous, thinking he was flirting with me. He was just teasing, as always. So why was my heart still hammering against my ribs and threatening to jump out of my chest when I looked at the smirk on his face? Why was I blushing so badly?

          Taking a few calming breaths, I closed my eyes and looked away. It wasn't so odd to find Iggy attractive because, well, he was. It wasn't awful to be attractive to him either. But he had these tendencies to be a jerk.

          I was overthinking things. Maybe he was right-I did need to relax. So I squeezed my eyes shut, as if locking away my irrationality, and then looked back at the glittering sunshine.

          Next to me on the bench, Ignatius William stared unseeingly in front of him, his elbows on his knees. His face was painted with the smirk that had the ability to instantaneously rankle me or to make me smile in return, depending on the slight curve of his lips. A passing breeze tousled his blond hair, and the sunlight only highlighted his features.

          Since now I knew he was a tough guy who could handle mindless questions, I blurted, "How is it possible that a blind guy can be so fashionable?" It was truly a puzzling enigma to me.

          "Oh, that's cute," he remarked with a chuckle, sending waves of heat to my face that I willed away with all my might. "You think I actually pick these out for myself."

          An eyebrow rose on my face. Confused, I questioned, "What does that mean?"

          He leaned back in the bench, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. He almost grimaced as he elaborated, "It means, I have a brother with a fashion sense. He picks out all of my clothes for me the day before. I have no say about what I wear, nor do I really care. Not a big participant in appearances, not being able to see and all."

          I eyed the ruffled bird's nest on his head. "Obviously he doesn't do your hair."

          He let out a barking, amused laugh, shaking his head. "No, he doesn't. I get this look by rolling out of bed, hoping in the shower, and taking a towel to my head." His head turned in my direction slightly, his smirk returning to its rightful place. "You like?"

          Chuckling, I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "You're full of it."

          "Hey, blind guys need ego-stroking too," he pointed out. He released a sigh as his head fell back to the top of the bench, facing the sky. "I have no idea what I look like. I mean, I've got the general idea, but what do people mean when they say I'm blond? I can't rely on a mirror to assure me I look good. I've only got what I overhear from the squealing girls that I pass."

          A sudden sadness washed over me. His situation was unfathomable to me. I had no idea what it meant to never know what I looked like. I didn't know what it was like to live without my sight. I felt a pang of sympathy for him.

          He put his hand in front of him, as if he were studying it. His tone was laced in a suppressed bitterness as he asked me, "Can you explain to me what the color blue looks like without comparing it something I'd have to see?"

          My lips pursed as I honestly considered a way to describe the color blue. But as I searched my mind for something, I came up empty. The only things I could come up with compared blue to the sea or the color of his eyes. I gave a long sigh and told him quietly, "No, I can't. I'm sorry."

          "No, I didn't expect you to," he condoled me, heaving himself off the bench. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Sometimes I ask people that question and they try to tell me it's the color of the sky or the ocean. I even once got the reply that it's the blue Crayola crayon in the box." He chuckled humorlessly. "But I have no idea what the sky, or the ocean, or the blue crayon look like."