Oh, no. What did I have to know? My mind raced as he hesitated, taking a moment to compose himself.

“You aren’t gay are you? Because that would be really awkward,” I blurted out, remembering the other man who I had noticed was here nearly every day. Could it be?

“No,” he said quietly, reaching out for me awkwardly, “I’m…I’m…”

“You’re married. I should have known,” I continued to blabber, sitting down at his piano bench, covering myself with the drenched bathrobe.

“Yes, I mean, not anymore…” he continued, “I can’t see you.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said, confused, standing up to go, “I’ll leave then.” I brushed past him. He caught me by the arm.

“Marguerite, I really can’t see you,” he said.

“Why?” I stammered, my cheeks burning hot.

“Because…because…Marguerite…I’m blind,” he said. Blind? I thought. What’s so wrong with being blind that he had to hide it from me?

“That’s it?” I said, relieved. He looked confused. I walked toward him and embraced him in my soggy bathrobe arms.