Abyss

Abyss

I remember the first time I saw him: hair the color of September wheat spilling onto sculpted shoulders; graceful arms reaching upward, impossibly high above his head, until he grasped the frozen entree he desired and the whole bunch came crashing down into his lap, into the aisle, skidding under the big wheels of his chair.

A shadow passed across his lovely brow . . . impatience with the thoughtless architecture of the able-bodied, perhaps, mingling with the effort not to show embarrassment. Would my intervention deepen his shame, or would ignoring the clatter of frosted boxes across the linoleum mark me, brand me as one of the uncaring horde?

The twenty feet between us seemed more than a gulf of distance; rather, a gauntlet of ethical principle to be traversed, or not. Which was proper?

I weighed the alternatives, imagined crossing the abyss, offering assistance with a smile. Where could be the harm?

He was as gracious as I expected, his protestations polite and easily overcome. I complimented his choice of dinner. He made a joke. Introductions followed, conversation flowed, phone numbers were exchanged.

We became a couple.

I marveled at his creative nature and noble spirit, his artist's hands and gentle beauty. He claimed not to notice my lack of same. We basked in the sensuality of our tender lovemaking.

Together, we made a child.

Our life together was near perfect, as I envisioned it.

I remember the first time I saw him.

The last time I saw him.

The abyss never crossed.