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He called a couple more times. I didn't return the calls. I'd become steeled to my own selfishness, unwilling to have sympathetic feelings, consoled by the fact that I was a bad person, or, if not a bad person, definitely not a good person, because although I didn't do anything really wrong, I didn't do anything really good either. I saw him on a bus a month or so later. I looked into his eye and walked past, and only after I sat down (at the very back of the bus) did I realize that I'd looked into the eye that didn't work. I snuck off the bus at my stop, but I glanced at him from the sidewalk and saw his good eye on me, with the same look he gave me when I left his house the last time. A year later I saw him at the Seattle Art Museum, where I was working, and he had another person my age pushing his wheelchair. Andrew didn't give any sign of recognizing me, nor I him.  |
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