The glare off the snow-covered slopes near Queenstown was gorgeous but overpowering. I'd forgotten my sunglasses when we stopped at that quaint little café for lunch, and for once, you'd forgotten to pick them up. That's when I first noticed how much I liked that little bit of extra care you took. You tried to give me yours, but I laughed at you and called you an old woman.

The air was cold and clear, the sky perfectly blue, and snow as pure a white as I've ever seen. It was terribly, unspeakably beautiful -- like every other wonder we'd discovered in New Zealand. The mountain seemed insanely steep, rising up like a majestic, rough-hewn giant from the snowy landscape, yet neither us thought to be afraid of the height. You'd wanted to try snowboarding, I thought you were crazy.

I was right. But god, it was fun.

You looked like you were on top of the world, grinning from ear to ear over the fuzzy green wool of your scarf, all flushed cheeks and shining eyes, breath coming out in jubilant puffs of white in the brilliant July morning. I couldn't help but smile.

We spent the entire day on the slopes, and saw the most vibrant and breathtaking sunset I'd ever seen. As day faded into dusk, the lights of the city below flickered into existence, appearing almost fairy-like in the cool, crisp evening air. Stars bloomed above us, mirroring the points of light below. It was positively magical.

*

Before I even opened my eyes, I could smell the iodine and alcohol sterility of the hospital. The memory came back in a rush: waking up from a nap on the way home, breathing in a hint of petrol and snow in the air, and that crap air freshener you hang from the rearview. Opening my eyes, and wondering why it was so dark. Asking you, and hearing the panic in your voice, smelling it on you as you leaned in close and asked if I could see you.

I couldn't, and that was weird. I could smell your cologne, the clean scent of exertion, the rich chocolate you'd bought at Te Anau last summer. I could smell it on your breath, warm on my face; you must've been close enough to kiss (not that I would) but I couldn't see you. I couldn't see anything.

I still couldn't, although everything was white now, instead of black. I felt a jolt of fear, same as anyone would if they suddenly couldn't see, but I could feel your arm around my shoulders, protective; I could feel the warmth of your body against my side, and smell the comforting musk scent that you wear. Funny how I didn't notice until then how much I'd always liked that smell. Feeling you next to me, breathing you in beside me, I was reassured.

Snowblindness rarely lasts longer than a day, they said. Call if the pain worsens.

I'll take care of you, you said.

*

You picked up Chinese for dinner on the way back to your flat, where I'd be staying until my sight came back. It felt so strange to sit with food in front of me and not be able to see what I was eating -- it was like I was tasting the food for the first time, without the visual feed to tell me how each piece should taste.

The fried rice was chewier than I remembered, but not in a bad way. I noticed how rice tasted, grainy and good as it stuck in my teeth, something I'd forgotten, after using it as a base for other foods for so long. The water chestnuts were crisp and almost-tart in that strange way. The bean sprouts were fresh and tasted like water when I bit into them. The mild peppers had a tang that I'd almost forgotten, fresh and springlike in my mouth.

You held your eggroll for me to take a bite, and I accidentally caught a lick of skin with my tongue. Your fingers tasted like salt, and something warm and rich. They trembled against my mouth, the blood rushing to the tips, hot against my tongue. It might have been a bit awkward, but you didn't pull away.

When I thanked you, you retreated, and I tasted something else: regret.

I licked my lips to taste your skin again, not knowing why. And then I found myself wondering how you tasted everywhere else. Which was new... and not new.

*

When you first realized I couldn't see, I could hear the sharp note of panic in your voice, the slight stutter of words. I heard the rustling, fumbling sounds as you dug frantically for your phone. I heard the low urgency of your tone as you told the doctor what had happened.

I heard my own heart beating in the throbbing of my head on the way to the hospital, in the endless stretch of waiting. It pulsed like the bass line to a rock anthem.

In the hospital room, I heard the rasping guilt in your words, the husky apologies for not making sure I had my sunglasses. Daft git. You're not my Nan, and I've never been gladder of the fact.

I heard the sincerity in your promise to take care of me.

When we ate dinner in the relative quiet of your livingroom, over the crinkling of takeaway boxes, I heard the softness of your voice, the gentle quality that hadn't come from guilt. Had it always been there? When you said my name, was there always that deep affection that went beyond what your voice held for our other mates?

When I tasted your thumb, I heard the catch of your breath, the shakiness of your recovery. I heard the pounding of blood in my ears. I heard the breathlessness of my own thank you. I heard the stutter of your reply, a different anxiety lacing through the words, making your voice shake just a little.

*

When I opened my eyes, it felt like they had sand in them. They burned, and my head ached with a piercing pain.

When you helped my from the car at the hospital, I felt the tremor of your hands, the protective warmth as you wrapped an arm around me to guide me in through the maze the world had become. I felt the chill of winter air on my skin every place you weren't touching me.

As we sat in the hospital room, I felt the soothing stroke of your thumb against my shoulder, the tight squeeze of reassurance when the doctor came in. It did more to ease the pain than the paracetamol they gave me. I felt the jump of your pulse when I touched your wrist.

In the warmth of your livingroom, I noticed the gentleness of your touch as you held food for me to eat. I tested the soft, rough pad of your thumb with my tongue, felt the involuntary jerk and tremble of your hand in response.

I shivered at the rasp of stubble against my palm when I cupped your face. I felt the firm warm press of lips against mine, and the quick, short breath as you yielded your mouth to me. I drank in the warm, slickrough contours of your tongue against mine, and the flex of fingers in my hair. I felt your heartbeat, firm and fast as my own.

And I wasn't surprised to find it felt right.

Slashababy 2004 Stories