The door opens and someone walks in, then stops abruptly. It’s a man, that much I can discern even from this distance. He’s tall and very muscular, wearing a black T-shirt and baggy black pants. His hair is either dark blond or light brown. That summarizes everything I can make out. I had a week left until my scheduled second eye surgery, but then . . . everything happened. The doctor said he expected to correct my nearsightedness almost entirely.
The man just stands there, and I wonder how long he plans on just staring at me.
“Good morning,” he says finally, and a pleasant shiver passes down my body. I’ve never in my life met a man with a voice so deep. “How are you feeling?”
I squint my eyes, trying to see him better, but he’s still just a blurred shape.
The man takes a tentative
