Simplicity by Sunny

I’m a really lucky person.  I’m particularly lucky to have friends who appreciate hot chocolate spiked with booze.  So my friend Becky and I, in search of such a drink, settled ourselves into a table at Rico’s.  Here they serve the Colorado Aztec.  It’s hot chocolate with a hint of chili pepper, followed by a generous pour of whiskey.  Decorated – of course – with a mountain of whipped cream.

What more, I ask, is needed for a Friday night?

If you answered banjos, you’d be correct.

A band played for us whiskey-loving patrons.  Two banjos and a smooth alto reminded us that - yes, oh yes - life’s good.  Chocolate and whiskey supported this mindset.

Knees tucked beneath my chin, foot tapping on the wooden seat, I took everything in.  Wine bottles lounged promiscuously on the bar, the warm light kissing their curves.  Floor boards creaked under quick feet, servers moving in rhythm with the band.  Heat drifted from the kitchen, the aroma of sourdough and marinara forcing hungry breaths. 

There, in the corner, a young couple relished a first date – smiles shaking, hands trembling.  He leaned in and whispered something, lips grazing the top of her ear.  She blushed.  His fingertips trailed her cheekbone, tucked her hair behind an ear.  Life here, at this table, was fresh.  Nerve-wracking.

Eight grey-haired ladies sat front and center, their belly laughs contagious.  They dug into creme brulee with greedy spoons.  Carelessly interrupting each other, wild hand gestures flying.  They were luminous in their enthusiasm.  Life at this table was unrestrained. 

Then, over to the right, I noticed a man and a woman.  Her hand rested in the crook of his arm.  His head nodded to the music, an easy smile strolling along the curve of his lips.  She watched him, smiling too.  How long they’d been married – five years, perhaps, or twenty - I don’t know, but it was a timeless love.  They unconsciously leaned into one other.  Human magnets.

A retractable walking stick leaned against the side of his chair.  He was blind.

I took a moment to wonder about him.  Had he always been blind?  Had he ever seen his wife?  Did he know that her hair was the color of honey?  Did he know about her freckles and bright eyes?

Drifting back to the banjos and my imagination, I closed my eyes, relaxed from the whiskey.  In the middle of my daydream (involving a hammock, wool quilt, and three dozen books, if you must know), I heard the blind man ask his wife, “Dance with me, baby?”

Opening my eyes, I saw that he’d brought his face close to hers, noses almost touching.  Rico’s isn’t a dancing kinda place.  She darted a look around, looking suddenly uncomfortable.  But then she returned his smile and rubbed her nose against his.  “Of course,” she answered, grabbing his hand.

There, to the left, they claimed 9 square feet of dance floor.  She maneuvered their steps around the tables and servers, letting him lead as much as possible.  His face became enthralled.  Thrilled.  He pulled her closer, buried his nose into her honey-colored hair, slid his lips across the base of her neck.  Gave her a twirl.  He was - very simply – happy to be dancing with his wife to the strumming of banjos – in a place he knew only as warm and aromatic. 

He didn’t see the curious glances.  He didn’t know that they were the only two dancing. 

Despite his lack of sight – no, because of it - I’d say he was the luckiest person there.

What would be different if I, too, were blind?  If I could rely only on my feelings, with absolutely no regard to how it looks?  What if I were blind, but felt my urge to dance, my itch to sing, my pull toward love?  Well, I’d dance a helluva lot more.  I’d sing a lot louder.  I’d dig into love with a greedy spoon.

Soon they stopped dancing, breathless and pink-cheeked, and settled back into their chairs.  Life at this table was… blinded by sensation.