Blind Fools: Chapter 3

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Chapter 3

Ophelia really and truly needed her coin.  The man in front of her was just too delicious to be looking – um, maybe concentrating was a better word...he was too delicious to be concentrating on her like this.  He was gorgeous, and she was ordinary, and he almost certainly had a skinny, porcelain girlfriend waiting on him somewhere out there.  Ophelia sighed once more, getting all fidgety again.  His full mouth turned down in a concerned frown, hearing the distress in her sigh and probably thinking it was directed at him.  Which wasn't the case at all...mostly.

“Really, ma’am – uh, do you have a name?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I can’t keep calling you ma’am.  You don’t sound any older than my baby sister, and I don’t want to insult you with the old lady title.”

Baby sister?  Ophelia tilted her chin up stubbornly…wasting the visual effect on him.  “I’m twenty-eight,” she claimed hotly.

“And so is my baby sister,” he said smugly.  “She has a name, too.  I do hope you share that common factor with her.”

What was he going on about now?  Oh…right.  A name.  “Ophelia,” she said.  “My name is Ophelia.”

“Ophelia,” he repeated, a funny tip to the corners of his lips.  “Like from Hamlet?”

“The one and same,” she said.

He stepped closer, and she backed into the Mark Twain display.  “I believe that’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard,” he breathed.

Ophelia cleared her throat.  “Yes, well…my mother was always optimistic,” she said.  “Unfortunately, I’m doomed to tragedy.”

“Why is that?”

“Ophelia?  She went insane and killed herself?”

“And you believe that you will suffer the same fate because of your name?” he asked, amused by her.

“Well, no…um…Mina!  Wilhelmina from Dracula.  She was a character that overcame surmountable odds.  She is highly esteemed and idolized…and would make a perfect heroine for your niece to write about.”  Ophelia turned her back and searched the nearby shelves for a copy of Bram Stoker's novel.  Peeking under her lashes at him, she saw him holding back another grin.  She found the book and thrust it at him.

“If you’re handing me something, it’s best if you actually put it in my hands,” he said to her, biting his cheek.

“Oh!  Sorry,” she murmured, and was glad he had what he was looking for so he could leave now.  Never before had she ever felt like such a numskull.  Not even the time she tumbled into a glass ball sculpture at Tiki's exhibit opening.

The front door jingled again, and a young girl strolled through, straight blond hair hanging to her elbows.  “Uncle Ian?  You in here?”

His face never turned away from Ophelia.  “Back here, Mira,” he called.  The girl – his niece, apparently – joined them.  Ophelia decided she was older than she looked.  Maybe twenty?  Twenty-one?

“I thought I said for you to wait in the coffee shop until I finished my shift,” she said.  “Please tell me you didn’t cross the street by yourself?”

Ophelia bit her tongue at the girl’s reprimand.  The man was old enough to take care of himself…blind or not.  But then Mira’s uncle only smiled and blindly reached out to pat her shoulder.  “I’m not a child.  I’ve been crossing streets since I was able to walk.”

Mira curled her upper lip.  “Yeah, but how often do you get out without Joey?  You still should have waited.”

Ian pushed the copy of Dracula at Mira’s stomach.  “I found you a book.  Ophelia, here, says that the character in here would be perfect for you.”

Mira glanced at Ophelia before looking down at the book.  “Dracula?  Are you serious?  This is a kid’s book.  I read this in sixth grade.”

Ophelia butted in.  “Wilhelmina Murray was a passionate woman that cared for Jonathan Harker with her entire heart.  She would have done anything within her social setting to keep him safe.”

“Within her social setting…exactly!” Mira argued.  “She never broke any rules or went against the world.  I wouldn’t exactly call her a role model.”

“On the contrary,” Ophelia countered, warming up to the subject.  “Mina is a wonderful role model.  She was the essence of purity in the turn-of-the-century woman.  She is intelligent and loyal, and the embodiment of all things sweet and noble in a woman.”

“She was spineless and boring,” Mira said in a short voice.  “I’d much rather read The Awakening, or Portrait of a Lady.”

Ophelia breathed out.  The customer was always right.  She had bills to pay after all.  She took the book from Mira’s fingers and replaced it on the shelf.  “I have both.  Which would you prefer?”

Ian cocked his head at his niece.  “Now, Mira.  Your professor said that the story must appeal to your personality.  Dracula is perfect for you.” 

“But not the heroine,” she disputed.  “Edna from The Awakening was strong woman that wasn’t afraid to get down and dirty.”  She reached around Ophelia and plucked that paperback off the shelf.  Her uncle took it from her hands and thrust it in Ophelia’s direction.

“Edna was a woman in a stagnant marriage that sought out a more exciting life,” he said.  “You are not married, nor do you need a more exciting life.”

Amen to that, Ophelia thought.  Finally, someone who gets it.  Excitement was completely over-rated.  Mira stomped past him to the end of the aisle and grabbed Portrait of a Lady.  “Then I’ll write about Isabel.  She was a strong-willed character—“

Her uncle interrupted, “Who went against her better judgment and married a horrible man.  You would never allow a man to bulldoze you like she had.”

Ophelia blinked at him.  “Uncle Ian” truly did not look like a “nice guy,” but he was steadily defining himself as that.  Hmm, he must be in the experimental group for the nice guy study.  Steve was, without a doubt, a participant in the control group.  Control was good.  Experimental was too much work.  Ophelia was just too tired to experiment.

Mira planted her hands on her hips.  “So, you’re saying, that instead of independent women that learned from their mistakes and glorify in their sexuality and outspoken opinions, I’m a Wilhelmina?  A woman that never said a harsh word or thought badly about anyone, and would have never presumed that her precious Jonathan was in any way less than perfect?”

Ophelia watched as Ian ran a light hand up his niece’s cheek and smoothed the hair from her forehead.  “You, my dear Mira, are a woman that makes no apology for herself,” he said.  “A young lady who is --” He stopped and turned his cheek to Ophelia.  “How did you put it?  The 'embodiment of all things sweet and...'  oh, I forget.”

“Noble,” she finished for him in a whisper.  Clearing her throat, she said, “Well, if you decide on something, I'll be up front.”

The physical affection Ian displayed for the younger girl upset Ophelia in a way she couldn't describe.  She understood that the sense of touch was important to the blind, and she had to remind herself of that with every step across the bookstore, but people just don't touch each other like that.  In fact, unless Steve was “in the mood,” he didn't bother to hold her hand in public.  No experimentation there.  And notwithstanding all her other past failures in relationships, her parents’ marriage lacked a lot of physical endearment as well.  She'd never been comfortable with it, and she did not want to explore that far into her relationships.  Too exhausting.

But then again, so was faking orgasms because Steve went from kiss to naked to done in under ten minutes.  Sometimes, he skipped the kiss part.  Really, in this day and age, with all the literature and television programs directed at fulfilling a partner’s need, she’d think he’d be able to tell the difference between the real and the forgery.  Ophelia sighed to herself.  It was just easier to smile and finish after he left. 

Steve was too calm of a lover, especially considering how fast he did it.  The problem was that he had no concept of foreplay or after-play…well, any play, really.  No lingering touches.  No deep, wet kisses, and no warm, afterglow snuggling.  In fact, now that she looked back, touching was pretty much a no-no as well.  Her eyes glanced over at Ian and his niece.  Touching didn’t have to be sexual.  Touching could be tender and platonic.  Shoot!  The blind man got it, why couldn’t Steve?

Ophelia couldn't remember the last time someone caressed her cheek or smoothed her hair back from her face, but she was fairly sure her grandmother had been the last person to touch her in any loving way that didn't correspond with sex.  Sighing with the injustice of her not-so-erotic love life, she rested her chin on her hand and glared at the dark crack behind Lucky's bookshelf.  Maybe experimentation could be a good thing.  She could try it at least.  What’s the harm?  Find herself a man just for her pleasure alone...

Her gaze traveled back to her customers.  Someone like him.  Sighing with confusion, exhaustion and all things unfair, Ophelia leaned on her elbow.  She was absolutely, without a doubt, breaking up with Steve tonight. 

*****

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