#51 Short Story
Oh, how cruel it is for the stars to shine and bask in their own rays,
while a blind man wishes to admire their spark.
There is no greater irony than a man careless with his own wit,
balanced at the edge of himself,
trying to find calm in a storm—
rugged by adversities,
and more so by the trivialities life is both cruel and kind enough to offer.
“What do they look like?” the blind man asked the man long dead.
“What is?” the dead replied.
“Am I not looking at them for the past hour we have been waiting here?”
The dead followed the direction of the blind man’s face.
He assumed it was how the old man passed the time—
staring into nothing, as people like him often did.
It would have been awkward to pry into things he didn’t care for,
things too private, too personal to be offered so freely to strangers.
Instead, he noticed the lamp post.
A crack ran along its side, almost invisible unless one searched for it.
Small flies hovered quietly around the floodlight,
drawn to the false sun meant to keep the dark at bay.
There was a bizarre, careless stroke of paint—
out of place—
resting on the slender metal an inch or two away from the glow.
“I am not referring to the lamp post, mind you,”
the blind man said, as if he had read the dead man’s thoughts.
“What is it then?”
“The stars. The sky tonight. The silvery clouds, if possible.”
The blind man paused and sniffed the air.
“Good thing not a hint of red can be seen above.”
“Red?”
“Means it’s not going to rain. Can’t you taste the wind? It’s dry.
Not a scent of rain near us, nor any time soon.
God, I hate the rain at night.”
“Typical for men like you in the higher-ups—
not wanting to be soaked by a little bit—”
The blind man suddenly reached for his bottle of water,
twisted the cap off,
and poured what little remained over his head.
“Oh! Looks like I’m no Witch of the West.
And who said I hate getting soaked?
Sad to say, you’re far too opinionated about people unlike you.”
“What do you know about me?”
“A yapper in his twenties or thirties—
more or less, take or leave it.
Judging from how quick you are to complain,
how certain you sound about things you haven’t lived through,
and how blind you are compared to me when it comes to real beauty,
I’d say you’re in the successful part of your life.
“The struggle’s still there, sure—but you’re doing alright.”
“How you shifted away when I took myself a shower
tells me you’re wearing a suit.
Good job on whatever interview or important business you had today.
You’re great. This I know, I’m afraid—
and I’m too certain you rarely hear it.
But honestly… good job.”
The dead man was quiet for a moment.
“Old man,” he said slowly,
“you must be one hell of a stalker if you know that much about me.”
“Not really,” the blind man replied.
“I don’t know the color of your eyes.
Nor your hair.
I don’t know how your smile looks.
“But I am certain—this, I am very sure—
you are a kind man.”
“How are you so sure about that?”
“You stayed.
You chose to accompany a blind man waiting for his bus
in a place most people would rather hurry past.
“All the while having second thoughts.
Regretting a decision you made on impulse.
And yet—you stayed.
“Don’t think I didn’t hear you checking your watch.
Clicking your tongue. Mumbling.
And still—you stayed.
Thank you.”
The dead man’s hand twitched.
Slowly, deliberately, he tucked the knife back into his coat.
“For a blind man,” he said,
“you sure are trusting.”
“Old age, perhaps. And good hearing.
A kind soul’s voice is easy to tell apart from others.”
Silence settled between them.
“Oh—but if the lights went out for just a few moments tonight,”
the dead man said,
“I imagine it would be dazzling.
The moon is full.
And the stars… the stars are always curious.”
“You’re not the only one,”
said the blind man.
The bus arrived soon after.
The blind man boarded.
The dead man stayed behind,
staring upward—
not at the stars,
but at the place where they should have been.