A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
“Anna,” I whispered, my hand hovering an inch above her back.
Before my fingers could make contact, she quietly stepped away, sliding her body closer to the very edge of the bed. Her movement was fluid, silent, and completely devoid of any anger or warmth.
“I am too tired, Jordan,” she said into the darkness. Her voice carried no heat, only a flat, exhausting distance.
My hand fell back to the mattress, empty.
She turned her back to me in the quiet bedroom, a distance of three feet feeling like an impassable canyon.
The university science center lobby was larger than I remembered, smelling of heavy pine floor wax and old stone. A massive periodic table made of cherry wood hung on the east wall, its clean grid of elements throwing sharp shadows across the floor. Students with heavy blue backpacks hurried past me without a glance, their conversations filled with terms I did not recognize. I stood near a bronze bust of a former department head, my hands clasped behind my back. My corporate oxfords made a sharp, clean sound on the terrazzo floor, a stark contrast to the soft scuff of sneakers around me.
