Blind Is Love
I wrote this from several topic-prompts for reading to our writer’s group at the city library (shout out to Librarian Laney!). I never published it anywhere. I kinda sorta forgot about it, but I like how it fits into this collection. When something hurts too much to see, is it ever possible not to look?
Ernest P. Wittling followed his practiced routine in preparing for Mary’s daily three o’clock visit. He had served her sugar-sprinkled star cookies and coffee that first occasion some thirty-three years ago when she’d come talking about some sort of census or survey. He’d served her the same snack every day since.
After that first year he summoned the courage to profess his love, but she demurred for another year before succumbing to his wiles. Still, they agreed their affe
