A story

I was working on a project for a pretty exclusive client, and we were meeting at their offices. The client contact was there, and the client contact’s assistant. The information architect was there. And I, the writer, was there. The designer was late, and so we decided to start the meeting without her. I had my back to the door when the designer walked in. Since we had never met, I stood and turned to introduce myself. She was the most beautiful thing I think I had ever seen up to that point in my life. Raven hair, dark eyes, creamy white skin, and beautiful smile. Funny, it wasn’t until I reached out and took her hand to shake it that I realized she didn’t have any fingers on either hand. And only later when we were walking together to another place in the building could I see that both her legs were amputated at the knee.

Still, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

Over the course of the project I learned that she was not only a successful commercial designer, but also an accomplished artist. She explored, logically I think anyone would agree, the idea of physical beauty.

And I still couldn’t take my eyes off her, or not think about her.

More time working with her, and I learned from her Web site that at one time she had been employed in the adult entertainment industry, gotten breast implants, and the second day after the operation had contracted toxic shock syndrome, and that was the reason for the amputations.

I thought she was beautiful.

And I knew the attraction. It was so obvious to me, but I didn’t want to tell anyone; I knew I couldn’t get anyone to understand. I knew that while I had all my limbs, inside I looked just like her. A kindred spirit. I was missing so many parts. Someone had hurt me terribly, in that place where we can’t see but that still hurts as much as a physical punch. It was comparable to getting run over emotionally by a bus, and it seemed she did it not just once, but over and over, even knowing it and getting some sort of sick enjoyment out of it. There were parts of my spirit that were amputated as cleanly as that woman’s legs.

And for that reason she fascinated me. Her joy for life, her ability to maneuver through this physical world seemed unimpaired, to the point where you didn’t even notice her impairments, if you can even call them that. But of course you could, though. She just learned how to do without.

I think of her every so often. I get email from her occasionally, mostly announcements of a show she’s exhibiting her work in.

There are parts of me that are still missing. The part that makes us open? Gone. I can’t trust people like I used to. When it comes to trusting people, I trust with a limp. Loving? I can still love, but I do it with a crutch. And there are things I simply can’t do anymore. I can’t cry anymore. I feel for my fellow human being constantly, but I’ve gotten hard.

But like my co-worker, I do all right in this physical world.