1. BLIND LOVE

A man who is blind in his right eye is in love with a woman blind in her left. They always walk side-by-side, so as to see what the other cannot. This way, nothing can take them by surprise, such as a loose brick on the street or a sharp veer to the side. Sometimes, when a flying leaf obscures one of their eyes, they are sent careening in elliptical rings over the asphalt, laughing and spinning.

It is good for the man to know exactly why she loves him. But later in his life, the man meets a woman who is blind in both eyes–and doesn’t it feel so good to be that much more needed?
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2. INFECTION

On Monday, he discovers an infection in his right eye. He can feel it stretching from the socket into his esophagus, slithering past his right nipple to rest in his right ball.

By Tuesday, he has developed a limp and a numbness on one side of his cock. He does not think much of it, but on Thursday morning, his wife kisses him on the right cheek and grows sullen when he does not notice. He drives her to work, and they sit in silence. By then, he has gone entirely blind in his right eye, so he has to swivel his head to see her in the passenger seat. She snaps at him, keep your eyes on the road. He fears that during the quiet drive, he will fail to notice that she has vanished.

He is reminded of when he played hide-and-seek with his ex-girlfriend in the library. She left the complex and never came back, leaving him wandering through the hushed bookshelves, whispering her name. The motion-automated lights flickered on in quiet, rhythmic waves, one after another, like those of a moving train or that of his own heartbeat, swelling in thick pulses.

On Friday night, he stands in front of a mirror and shines a light in his right eye to check for signs of function. The pupil suddenly tightens like a man leaping away and receding into the distance.

But on Sunday, he has sex with his wife, and his numbness allows him to last far longer, so he even makes her come. He sees half of her smiling face and feels a single tit in his left hand. Perhaps, he thinks, he should be grateful to relinquish only half of himself and live at peace than remain in fear of losing it all.
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3. STILL BETTER THAN BEING ALONE

There is a young woman with a shadow made of flesh. With each step, she feels the weight of her own body falling onto its own, the sizzle and crack of heel meeting heel, bone on bone. By the time she arrives home, her shadow is battered and bleeding, its ankles broken and toes askew. It can only rest when she is eating dinner. It lies quietly beneath the table, its mouth opening and closing like a black goldfish gulping for air. Occasionally, she tosses a crumb from her plate and watches it disappear into the patch of dark. She is incapable of remembering that, when morning comes, her shadow will rise out of bed, and she will fall onto the floor. Then her shadow will move forward, step by step, towards the bathroom, where it will drown her in the bottom of the shower.
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4. HAND IT OVER

She woke up to find that the skin of her hands had gone missing. From her wrists to the tips of her fingers, all that was left were the twenty-seven bones floating in each of their glove-shaped, fleshy sacks. When she brought them into the light, the red webbing of capillaries slithered like thin snakes.

Could it be from her skin routine? She scarcely exfoliated, and even if she did, the pilling of skin could not account for such a large mass of missing flesh. Her husband scolded her, Where did you last leave it? He watched as she searched the cabinets and cupboards. Are you sure they’re missing?

She wondered how he could not see the signs of its disappearance. Each time she held a cup, the sweat dribbled in fat droplets down its sides, so that the shadow of another hand appeared below it. Wet handprints trailed after her, multiplying on counters, clothes, the couch cover, and anything made of wood. It bothered her how difficult it was to slice vegetables; she could not see where to stop the blade, since the boundaries of her hands were near invisible. Once, she nicked herself, and she sat on the couch for hours, watching the blood cells converge into a black, scaly scab. She missed the sight of the small mole on her right hand. As a child, she would stare at it and try to transfix herself in a fixed spot in time, un-aging and suspended.

She will find the skin of her hands tomorrow, as she crosses the road in the snow. In the distance, two silhouettes are melded by one long arm between them: her husband with a tall, lush woman. Even from afar, she will see the woman’s soft leather gloves, and on the right hand, the black speck of a mole, staring back like an eye.

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