Colors: Meeting an Enthusiast

It all started months and months ago, back in a cold, blistery Spring.  I was bundled up in layers upon layers, making my way against the wind.  I needed coffee, I needed something warm in me to feel alive again.  My hand reached out with my cane, tapping away in front of me by a little bit.  No most people avoided me as it was.  I mean, why would someone, if they weren’t completely horrible, run into a blind man?

That was why I always had my cane with me and a pair of small sunglasses upon my face.  It was, as I was told, the staple of blind men’s fashion.  And either or, I tended to stay close to the nearest wall.  It was a focal point that I could rely on, that I could trust.

I turned the corner, and continued on, the wind now pushing me against the wall.  I could taste the air here.  It was fresh, crisp, with just a hint of fish.  I was getting close.

The coffee shop in which I frequented was located by the wharf.  It was only a block or two away, but the scent of the sea was palpable even at that distance.  Which wasn’t saying much, as the island upon which I lived was almost always smelling of fish in once sense or another.  One would have to retreat deep into the island’s center to be free of the sea smell.  At least, that was what people told me.  I’ve never gone that far into the island myself.

I stopped as I hit another corner.  I listened.  No cars were coming.   I take a tentative step out until I hit the curb.  I stepped down.  I listened again.  I went across the street quickly.  It takes six and a half paces for me to reach the other curb.  I stepped up, and walk slowly until I find the building.  Once I found it, I began my steady tapping to the coffee shop.

It was another twenty paces before I stop outside the coffee shop.  I listened.  Someone was coming.  They stomped heavily, frantically.  Their breaths came in sharp exhales and long, drawn out inhales through their nose.  Their nostrils flared by the sound of it.

They stopped in front of me, almost spinning on the spot.  They opened the door.  Warmth greeted them, and myself as well.  A jingle of little bells attached to the doorknob rang.  The rich smell of coffee flooded my senses.

“Hallo, Anna!  I am back from the sea!”

A rolling, deep, thunderous voice cracked out from the person.  I could almost envision him.  He must be tall, and strong.  He was anxious?  Or was he impatient?  I couldn’t tell, but I did know that he was eager to return.  He was back here from afar.  How long had it been?  How far had he gone?

I sniffed the air.  I couldn’t tell much from his scent; the smell of coffee was overpowering whatever he had and honestly the smell of freshly ground coffee was making my mouth water.  I tilted my head to listen to him.  He had a thick accent, a German one.  Was he a foreigner?  Or was he an immigrant?  What made a man such as himself travel for so far away from his home country?  Business, or pleasure?

The man’s song was invigorating.  It was inspiring.  He could be a captain, or a hero, or a leader of some sort.  Or he could be a loud, and boisterous nuisance.  The charismatic songs tended to sway in either direction.  And with only a few lines, it was hard to see whom this man truly was.

The door closed with a little creak and a jingle of bells resounded.  Then I was left alone with the wind and the cold and the lingering warmth.

I waited a few moments, waiting to hear the sounds of anyone else.  I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of my own steady breathing.  I turned, and tapped my cane out until I could feel the wall. I tapped lightly, hearing the sound of my cane against the wall.  Brick.  Brick.  Brick.  Brick.  Wood.

I reached out with my free hand and found the handle relatively easily.  I opened the door, letting my face be blasted with heat and coffee and little bells and the deep German accent of the man.  I stepped inside, tapping away ahead of me.  I let the door close, bringing in the wind and the cold.

Coffee covered my senses.  There was background music, jazz of some sorts.  People were talking all over the place.  I could pinpoint them.  Two women behind the counter.  The large German standing before them.  A group of young girls talking in the corner.  Someone writing to the left.  A couple arguing loudly where the restroom was situated.

I took a few steps forward, to wait by the side of the large German.  He conversed loudly with the woman behind the counter.  I didn’t pay that much attention.  I was busy with the money.  I took out my wallet from my back pocket.  I skimmed my forefinger along the cards inside.  Each card had its place; it was how I kept track of everything.  If anything was out of place, then I wouldn’t know where it would be.

“Can I help you, Benji?”

Her voice was like little velvet petals falling from above.  It was soft, beautiful, but all so sad at the same time.  It was a tired voice; a tired that came from working all day long and a tired that came from doing the same thing for too long without passion.

I tilted my head to the side, my fingers still busy with my wallet.  “Coffee if you would, Karen.  Cream and sugar please.”

“Of course, anything else?”

I took out the appropriate card, and handed it to her.  “That’ll be it, thanks.”

Karen stepped away.  Familiar sounds of liquid pouring and falling and the sweet smell of creamer came to me.  I stood there waiting.  She would be back shortly, with my card and my coffee in hand.  The door opened, and someone came in with the wind and the cold and the faint smell of fish.

“Here we go.”

I reached out with one hand and took the card first.  I returned it to my wallet.  I put the wallet back in my back pocket.  I took the coffee in my left hand.  I reached out with my cane to tap.  I turned about, doing a one eighty.  I stepped a bit forward.  Then I was barreled into.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

It came from below me.  It was a woman, and an energetic one at that.  When she had bumped into me, she had brought with her the fading smells of the outside.  She had just came in with the cold, but as she put her hands around me to steady herself from falling she was indescribably warm.

“Are you okay?”

Her voice was almost dangerously bubbly.  And while it was energetic it was also soft.  Her hands were all over me, patting me down as if to comfort me.

“Did you spill?  No?  Good.”

She also talked almost a mile a minute.  She didn’t even let me get in a word edgewise.  Which might be good.  I haven’t even taken a drink of my coffee yet, and quite frankly I was a little irritable.  And the smell was so intoxicating too, tickling my nostrils with sweet cream and its warmth and its heaviness and its vanilla.

No, the vanilla was her.  Vanilla and strawberries and something resembling… no.  I can’t tell what it is.

“Oh!  Your glasses!  Let me!”

I could hear the sound of her fabric as it scrunched up as she bent over.  She wore leather?  At least a leather coat of some sort.  But then the more pressing matter came to me.  My glasses!  I reached up, the coffee cup coming up with my hand.  I touched where my glasses would be with the back of my hand.  Nothing was there.

“Here you go.”  The voice was more direct now, facing my face directly and not my body.  I waited.  The glasses weren’t on my face, or approaching my face.  “Woah.”

“Sorry?”

“Your eyes are so blue.  Like, an ice blue.”

“Ice blue?”

“Alice Blue, I think, to be precise.”

 “My glasses.”  I said.  I kept in my frustration.  After all, all I wanted was to sit with my coffee and enjoy it.  The path of least resistance was to wait and see to see how things went, and to let people be themselves.

“Oh, right!”  She placed the glasses upon my nose.

“Thank you.”

“Sorry, I’m just so involved with colors.  Ever since college I’ve been fascinated with bright colors and how they shape and work together.  I’m really passionate about it.”

“That’s nice.”  I tapped my cane.  “Can I go?”

“What?  Sorry, I’m…”  Her voice trailed off.  Her voice went soft, embarrassed.  “You’re blind.”

“I thought that the sunglasses gave it away.”

“I, uh, no.  I don’t really pay attention that much.  Didn’t you see that when I ran into you?”

“No.”

“Riiiiight.”  She drew out the word to mirror the realization as it came to her.  Her feet began tapping.  No, rocking.  She was rocking back and forth on her feet.  Heel to toe.  She was wearing…sneakers?  No.  The sound was louder.  It was boots of some sort.

“You’re blind.  Right.  So, how’d it happen?  I didn’t see any scars.  Are you wearing makeup?”

“Born blind.  This conversation is over.”

“Wait.  So you’ve never seen your eyes?”

I blinked, but that couldn’t be seen behind the sunglasses.  “Uh, no.”

I stepped to the side.  I took a drink of my coffee, letting the warm liquid coat my mouth and my throat.  It was utterly delicious.  She moved with me, stepping into my path.

“That’s a crime.”

I smiled, mildly amused.  “Who made you the police?”

“I just did.”  She was serious, or her tone was.  I couldn’t even hear a trace of a smile in there.  “Your eyes are way too pretty to be covered up by sunglasses.”

I frowned.  “Okay?”

“I mean, you are missing out on so much.  How do you enjoy paintings?  How can you enjoy looking at stuff?”

“I can enjoy life very much without looking at things.  I do have other senses.”

“Do you even know what a tree looks like?  Or the ocean?”

“I know what they are, roughly.”  I added.  While it was true that I hadn’t seen these things with my eyes, I did experience them.  I have touched and smelled and tasted and heard a load of things.  “I just haven’t seen them.”

“But can you picture them in your head?”

I shrugged.  “I mean, yes?  To a degree?”  I shook my head.  “Enough.  Conversation over.”

“With color and everything?”

That did stop me in my tracks.  Colors were something I have always heard, but never really experienced.

“Not exactly.”  I answered.  “I know what color it should be.  Just not what it looks like.”

She tsked, her tongue reverberating out of her mouth like a hi-hat.  “That’s a crime.”

“Again with that.  You’re not the law.”

“I damn well should be!”  She put my chin in her hand and pointed my head down towards her.  “Now you look me in the eyes.  As a color enthusiast, I believe that it’s a crime you don’t know your colors.  And I will personally remedy that.”

“You do know I can’t see, right?”

“I-I-I-of course I did!  But it still applies.  I’m going to teach you your colors.”

I laughed, throwing my head back and out of her grip.  “And just how are you going to teach a blind man about colors?  Just how are you going to do that?”

“I’ll figure it out!”  She laughed too.  “I did need a new challenge!”

I stopped laughing, but she continued to.  I stood there with her in my way, quite unsure about where or what to do.  I took a sip of my coffee.

If I could describe her song?  It reminded me like water.  It was violent and passionate and controlling.  But it also didn’t follow any path that I knew of.  This water carved its own bed, pushing and pursuing whatever it wanted.  It was like a poorly orchestrated solo; a jazz solo in particular with the sound of the background music.  It went where it wanted with an unrelenting pull that intrigued and scared me at the same time.

I took another sip of my coffee.  Once I was done with my coffee, I would leave, and I would never have to listen to her song again.