Sights of the Invisible
Four years earlier.
“Roy Michelson?” I asked pretentiously.
I looked at him.
“Origin?” I asked.
He grinned a lopsided grin.
“And why, may I ask, is this the first question that comes to mind?”
I return the grin.
“No idea,” I say. “Roy Michelson,” I repeated, trying out the name on my tongue to see how it felt.
I knew he couldn’t see me, but I smiled.
“I like it.”
And he smiled back.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
“Paisley Edwards.”
“Origin?” He questioned with a grin.
I laughed and shrugged, then remembered he couldn’t see me.
He smiled and reached out slowly, gently running his hands over my face. I tensed up for a moment, but held still as he observed my features.
“You’re beautiful,” he said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.
I laughed, glad he couldn’t see me blush from modesty.
“You can’t even see me,” I pointed out.
He nodded.
“I know. They say that when someone loses a sense, the other four become stronger than ever before. For me, I gained another. If someone is beautiful, I just need to hear them speak. When they speak, it’s in their voice. You, Paisley Edwards, are one beautiful human being.”
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