“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to…”
He felt her shift, her arm brushing his. “Fly a plane? Heck me neither. But I’m willing to be guided by the screaming if you are?”
She laughed, that soft breathy sound she made, more polite than mirth. He’d like to hear her laugh properly, like she meant it, not like it was the socially acceptable thing to do. If she smelled like clean laundry and fresh fruit, what would she sound like let loose? What would she taste like if he licked her skin?
Trent gave them the okay. They started from the section he’d had trouble with. At first all he felt was her single finger with its one note beat. As the timing for the interactive voice and video sections got more complex she rested all her fingers on his hand, using her index finger to tap out the timing in advance of the line required. Her fingertips went from cool to warm on his skin. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to his memory of the script and the rhythm she gave him. It was an inadvisable workaround, stop start, and took longer than it should’ve, but they made a good team, and they got it done.
The last section was straight narration. Georgia pulled her hand away. “I’ll leave you to finish this.” She was almost shoulder to shoulder with him, taller than Taylor. She was looking straight at him. She had dark hair. He put a hand to it and she flinched.
“It’s okay.” He pulled his hand away but left it hovering. “I wanted to see if your hair was straight or curly.”
Her out-breath told him it was all right to move his hand again, just till it met the crispness of her hair. “Curls.” He smiled; she had slippery curls you could wrap your fingers in. “Are you beautiful, Georgia Fairweather?” The gasp, that little intake of breath trembling like hurt told him he’d gone too far.
“It’s okay to slap a blind guy if he gets too fresh. But you don’t wear a wedding ring so, I, ah, took the liberty. Tell me you don’t go out with a weightlifter, or a cop, or a Gypsy Joker, because it’s not okay for any of them to hit a blind guy.”
Why was he pushing this? She was clearly uncomfortable with him, but her strange mix of hesitancy and capability were intriguing. Women who liked him used the tactile thing as an excuse to get close; sometimes it was practical, stopped him walking into walls. Often it was close to predatory, a literal grab bag of wrong, like Umbria who’d had a hand in his pants pocket before they’d finished the production meeting.
He hadn’t had a woman he was genuinely interested in touch him in a way that transcended helping him move around for a long time. Too long. But he’d liked the feel of Georgia’s hand on his, how her skin warmed with the contact, how she forgot to stand stiffly and relaxed, no longer tensing if her elbow brushed his side. But they were done and he should stop torturing her.
“Thank you for helping me out of this professional car crash.”
“It was good to meet you, Damon.”
He nodded. “It was lovely to meet you too, Georgia. You survived me on your first day, maybe you will end up owning this place.”
He got that little hitch of breath that was her approval and it was cause and effect. He felt for her shoulder, ran his palm down her arm to her hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. He held on a moment too long, a moment past the shock that’d allowed him time to pull off that move. She lifted her hand away and her shape blurred, the door opened and he was alone.
He didn’t have any further contact with her. Either she stayed quiet while Trent finished up or she’d left the studio. Lauren organised a taxi for him and he went to Lina’s office. She took pity on him, in her frozen food way, but only after she made him apologise as Stewie Griffin from Family Guy to the patient whose appointment he was queue-jumping
Minutes later the pressure of Lina’s hand on his shoulder was all the confirmation he needed. It was also all the sympathy he’d get from her.
“Your vision is down to, let’s not even give it a percentage. Have you been having headaches?”
“No.”
She moved away, behind her desk. “Anything unusual?”
He thought about it. Denial wasn’t a great supporter of self-awareness. “I’ve been sneezing, dry throat, feeling like I might get a cold.”
“Not related. Pollen count. Germs. Stress. Ordinary doctor stuff if it persists past over the counter support. I want to do a thorough examination but this confirms your thinking.”
He stood. He had what he needed and the Family Guy fan was waiting.
“You should assume it will get worse quickly from here, Damon. Get your support system organised.”
“Right.” He reached for his ID cane. He was going to need a goddamn long cane to do more than find doorways, assist with heights and drops, and warn people to watch out for him. Using a long cane would be an adjustment. There were going to be lots of fricking adjustments.
“Make a proper appointment. Just because you’re a long-term patient doesn’t mean you can barge in here any time you like.”
He aped surprise. “It doesn’t?”
“I’m charging you for this consultation. Reception will call you a cab.”
“You’re a doll, Lina, and the world is a better place with you in it.” He did that as George Clooney, her favourite movie star, and hoped she blushed.
He got the cab to take him to Moon Blink. He’d hang out with Angus, blow off the day and worry about it all tomorrow. Monday nights were slow at the bar, they could shoot the shit, and he wouldn’t need to feel the crush of his own personal eclipse so acutely. He could stare in the face of darkness and give denial another flat-out run.
Angus had a coffee poured before he’d warmed a stool. “How was work?” He was fossicking around the bar, facing away.