Seeing Clearly
“A little bit of gloss and I think you’re good to go,” Cayla said, handing Eloise a sticky pink tube. She stood to unplug the curler from the wall and find a space for it on Eloise’s cluttered bedside table.
Eloise unstuck the lid from the tube and applied some gloss, turning her head from left to right to admire herself in the mirror. “Thanks, Cayla.”
Unfurling herself from the bed, she began to pack her bag.
“Are you excited?” Cayla said, dribbling some water onto the peace lily from an abandoned glass.
“He seems really great online,” she replied, a small smile creeping onto her face, then quickly falling away. “But we’ll see. You know my track record.”
Cayla narrowed her eyes. “Promise me you’ll give him a real chance?”
Annoyance bristled within Eloise, but she knew the reproach was well meant. “I always do,” she said, zipping up her bag and leading Cayla from her bedroom to their living room. “I just know what I’m looking for.”
“If you say so.”
“Give my love to Sarah. See you later,” she said, opening the front door and stepping into the night.
***
Eloise pushed her glasses further up her nose so she could read the clock on the wall behind Byron. It had barely been half an hour. Already she couldn’t wait to leave.
They were sitting at the back of one of her favourite breweries. Down the centre of the room were five large silver fermentation tanks. The lighting was warm. Over the rowdy chatter of the other tables, she could just make out the soft guitar of an indie soundtrack. Past the bar and through the open front door, people milled around several high tables, smiling, drinks in hand.
Byron was still talking about koalas. Something irritated her about the wide set of his mouth and the way his voice rose at the end of each sentence, like he was seeking her approval. He spoke too quickly, clearly nervous, his descriptions of the animals he worked with tumbling out of him in a confused jumble. He called each by name, his eyes excited and his large hands gesticulating exuberantly.
She fiddled with a loose curl, wondering how quickly she could bring the date to a close without arousing Cayla’s disappointment. The thought of Cayla sparked guilt, and she forced herself to concentrate on Byron’s words.
“…but actually, one of the most dangerous animals in the zoo is the wombat,” he continued, his brown eyes filling with excitement. “They can’t see very well and they’re very territorial, so if you shock them, they charge. They’re surprisingly strong!”
“Oh wow,” Eloise said, feigning a giggle. “I would never have guessed!”
She supposed he was fairly good looking. He had a kind face under an unruly mop of brown hair, and he was quick to smile. He was tall, but not too tall. And yet, he wasn’t what she pictured for herself.
He cleared his throat, looking at her expectantly.
“Sorry, did you ask something?” she said.
A faint frown crossed his face. “I said that’s enough about me. Tell me about your job. I bet criminal law is way more interesting than what I do.”
“No way! You get to be around animals all day. The dream.”
“Really? What’s your favourite?”
Had he really just asked her about her favourite animal?
“Ummm…cats?”
“Great choice. What do you like about them?”
Wracking her brain, Eloise tried to justify her random selection. “They’re cute?”
“I like them because you have to earn their trust,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Dogs…they love whoever walks through the door. But with cats you have to work for it. They choose you.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
He asked again about her job, and she gave him her usual spiel about how different criminal law was from the movies. How there are two sides to every story. She waited for the inevitable “how can you defend such evil people,” but it never came.
Instead, he said, “It must be really hard. Being the expert during the most difficult experience of someone’s life.” He gazed into her eyes, his face filled with genuine interest. A familiar bolt of anxiety roiled in her stomach. She had done what Cayla asked. She had given him a chance. Now to wrap things up.
“Speaking of work…I’m absolutely shattered,” she said, covering a yawn. “I better get home.”
His expression faltered.
***
He insisted on walking her to the train station, leaving a comfortable distance between them. It wasn’t a long walk, but the crowd thinned as soon as they left the main drag. The night was brisk, the darkness thick, only pierced by the occasional streetlamp. They spoke idly of an upcoming local election, their voices echoing through the cottage-lined streets as they walked.
They soon arrived at the platform. A glowing sign indicated that her train would arrive in three minutes. There were only a few other people waiting. One dishevelled-looking man, his hands wrapped protectively around a brown paper package, leered at her as she bought her ticket. He took a swaying step towards her, but on seeing Byron, thought better of it. A shiver went through her, and she was suddenly glad he was there.
“So, what are your plans for the weekend?” she asked, mainly for something to say.
“I’ve got a netball game tomorrow,” he said, pushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Then on Sunday my sister and I are visiting our grandma.”
“Nice. Well, thanks so much for walking me. I had a really nice night.”
He gave her a sceptical glance. “Sure. Message me if you want to catch up again.”
“Will do,” she said, as a train horn sounded from her right, lights blaring into view. She turned to face the tracks, reaching into her bag for her glasses case and taking out her lens cleaner. Removing her glasses, the world dissolved around her. She always felt so exposed in those moments. Like something could fly at her at any second, and she would be powerless to stop it. Without glancing down, she began to wipe the lenses clean.
A tap on her shoulder startled her and she lost her grip on her glasses. She felt them fall out of her hands and heard a clatter as they hit the ground somewhere in front of her.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry!” Byron’s voice sounded from her left. “You dropped this.” He pressed her lip-gloss, judging from its stickiness and shape, into her hand.
Panic bubbled inside her. Without her glasses, she couldn’t find her glasses.
“Byron.” It was the first time she had said his name, her voice unnaturally high. “Can you get them for me?”
She could faintly make out the hulking train coming to a stop in front of her, confirmed by the screech of brakes.
“Didn’t you see?” came Byron’s sheepish reply from her left. “They fell onto the tracks.”
Anxiety mounting, she couldn’t help herself from snapping, “No. That’s why I wear them. To see.”
Her dismay now threatened to overwhelm her. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears, and she could almost taste her panic. In front of her, the train door hissed open. A hazy figure jostled her on their way off. Her breathing shallow, she felt herself descending to the ground in a crouch, her arms wrapping around her knees.
A warm hand lightly gripped her left shoulder, accompanied by Byron’s voice. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be alright. Do you have a spare pair with you?”
“No,” she said, her voice even higher now, sobs threatening.
Growing up, her parents ensured that she never left home without a spare pair of glasses. There were multiple in strategic locations around the house, as well as at her school. Living on her own, she had lost the habit. She couldn’t even read her phone without them, so there was never a risk of her taking them off and forgetting them.
Byron’s voice, calm and clear, came again from her left, coupled with a soft squeeze to her shoulder.
“How much can you see without them?”
The question recalled a childhood punctuated by questions from other children. Why are your glasses so thick? Can I try them? Eloise always answered in the negative, terrified of having them out of reach.
“Basically nothing,” she said, turning in the direction of his voice. She tried for levity, but instead her voice came out as a strangled sob. “I can make out a human sized blob, but that’s it.”
“Okay. Well, let’s get on together. I’m going to help you up, okay?”
“Okay,” she murmured, then felt his arms underneath her armpits, pulling them both upright.
A familiar clinical recording rang out around them: “Doors closing, please stand clear.”
“Let’s go,” he said, steering her through the vague opening in front of them before she had time to react. The doors swept closed behind them as he guided her into a nearby seat. She perched uneasily on its edge, trying not to touch anything, afraid of what she couldn’t see.
Chatter floated to them from further down the carriage, but she had no way of knowing how many people the voices belonged to.
“Where are we headed?” Byron asked from the seat next to her, his voice artificially cheery.
Her breath coming in shallow rasps, she tried to calm herself, digging the nails of her left hand into her right. Once during primary school, Jordan Scott had ripped her glasses from her face while she swung on the monkey bars, her outstretched arms unable to stop him. She heard him squealing, “Four eyes!” as he sprinted off laughing, two figures in hysterics flanking him. Unable to see the next bar, or the ground for that matter, she had remained frozen in place for what felt like an eternity. Finally, her arms gave out and she crumpled to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
Shortly afterwards, she heard the soft crunch of someone approaching, likely Jordan back to taunt her. A child-sized figure loomed into view, and Jordan’s voice emanated from it.
“Here you go,” he said gingerly, offering her the glasses. When she couldn’t take them, he uncurled her fisted right hand and slipped them into it. She wiped a glob of snot from her nose and fitted the glasses back onto her face, his almost comical expression of contrition coming into focus.
She had felt as helpless then as she felt now. She took a deep breath and turned towards Byron, adopting what she hoped was a nonchalant tone. “It’s two stops. We get off at Morningside.” She paused before forcing herself to continue. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, unconcerned.
“No. Really,” she said, tears threatening again, “I genuinely couldn’t do this without you.”
“Really. It’s nothing.”
Silence charged the air between them, and she grasped for something to say. “Some first date, huh?” A hollow laugh escaped her, seeming to reverberate through the carriage. “Bet you can’t wait to see what I have planned for the second.”
“We both know you aren’t planning to go on a second,” he said.
His frankness caught her off guard, and she dug her fingernails further into her hand. She wished she was anywhere else. “Was it that obvious?”
“You couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
Guilt and indignation clashed within her, indignation winning a narrow victory. “When you know, you know, right?”
“If you say so,” he said, his voice thick with scepticism.
“So you aren’t a romantic?” she asked.
The train shuddered, slowing. The clinical voice returned to tell them they had reached the next station.
“I wouldn’t say that,” came his reply over the hiss of the door releasing. “I just have some wonderful friends who would never have made it past the first date.”
Over his shoulder, two blurry figures — or was it three — stepped into the darkness, their carefree chatter filling the night air.
“Dating isn’t friendship,” she said, uncertainty creeping into her voice.
“Isn’t it?”
Silence rose once more between them, attended by the click of the closing door and the rattle of the train lurching forwards once more.
She cleared her throat. “So where does your grandma live?”
A soft snort escaped him, and then: “She’s in a retirement village out in Ipswich.”
“A long drive then.”
“Not so far.”
“How often do you go?”
“We try every Sunday.”
“Dedicated grandchildren.”
“I like to think so.”
The clinical voice returned: “Next station, Morningside.”
She suddenly remembered the walk from the station to her house. She had done it hundreds of times, but there was no way she could navigate without her glasses, especially in the dark. Her unease bloomed. Seeming to sense it, he asked, “What’s your address? I’ll map our walk.”
She told him and heard him take out his phone, his fingers tapping swiftly. “Eleven minutes. Easy peasy.”
As the train began to slow, Byron helped her up so that they could wait closer to the exit. When they finally juddered to a stop, he led her through the door and onto the murky platform, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her arm around his waist. Once off the train, they paused for a moment. “Left,” he said, a beam of light from his free hand flooding the area around them.
He swivelled them to the left, and they began a slow shuffle forward, Eloise gripping him to stay upright. She narrowed her eyes in a futile attempt to discern her surroundings, but it was even harder to see in the dark.
Giving up, she locked her eyes to the hazy outline cast by his torch beam, trying to ignore the sinister shadows looming from both sides. It was unnerving to walk without being able to see the contours of the ground. She felt that at any moment a hidden branch would snarl her, or a hidden depression would swallow her. Her nerves rendered every shifting shadow a loose dog, every light a car speeding straight for them. A strong breeze wore at them, muffling other sounds.
Fortunately, he navigated confidently, warning her of any change in terrain, and gradually she felt more at ease.
As they passed what she knew to be a local steakhouse, the tantalising smell of barbecuing meat reached her nostrils, and her stomach gurgled in complaint. She could almost hear the crackle of fat over the billowing of the wind. She had considered ordering some food at the bar but hadn’t wanted to prolong their stay. She regretted it now.
Minutes after the smell had faded, he asked, “So, who do you live with?”
“My best friend Cayla,” she replied, focusing on her feet as he manoeuvred them to the right. She thought they must be about halfway home now. They would soon be passing the local basketball courts. The hollow thwack of a ball on cement, accompanied by jubilant voices and the squeak of pivoting feet, confirmed her conclusion.
“How long have you lived together?” he asked.
“About three years. I’m dreading the day when she moves in with her girlfriend.” The voices grew louder as they passed the court. She heard the swish of the net and an exultant cry, followed by a few groans of disappointment.
“Not a fan?” he asked.
“A big fan!” she rushed to explain. “They are really great together. You can see Cayla relax when Sarah turns up. I just don’t want to lose her.”
“You won’t lose her.”
“I know,” she said, her foot catching on what might have been a root breaking through the pavement. He managed to hold her up and she straightened before continuing. “It’s just we’re getting to that age where everybody is pairing off. Soon there won’t be anyone left.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “And dating sucks.”
Wary, she asked, “How so?”
“The apps give you the illusion of endless choice. But really you only have so much time.” He paused. “And energy.”
“I get that.” Without thinking, she added, “I don’t go on a lot of second dates. Well… none, actually. I keep thinking I’ll know when I find what I’m looking for, but I’m not even sure I know what I’m looking for.” She trailed off, her face reddening.
“Maybe try just having fun with it?”
“But I don’t want to waste my time.”
“I mean the worst that happens is you make a friend. Or get a funny story out of it. Like the time I had to walk this one girl home…”
A real laugh erupted from her. “So, what about you? Where do you live?” she asked.
“I live with my sister and another friend. Right near Brew Brothers, actually,” he said, citing the name of the bar they had just left.
She was again flooded with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’m happy to help.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” she said, raising her free hand to cover her face.
“These things happen. And besides, we’re nearly there.”
He steered her off the footpath and onto what felt like soft grass. She heard the latch of a gate as it clicked open, and they stepped through.
“Okay, a few steps now,” he said. “One, two, three, four.” He counted as they navigated each one, coming to a stop at what she knew to be the landing to her apartment building.
“Which name do I buzz?”
“Jenson,” she replied.
After a moment, Cayla’s familiar voice crackled into the night air. “Hello?”
“Cayla,” Eloise said, her voice brimming with relief. “It’s me. Can you bring down my spare glasses?”
Concern tinged Cayla’s voice. “Of course. Where are they? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she replied. “On the bedside table.”
“Give me two secs.”
They stood in silence on the small landing for a few minutes, only disentangling their arms when they heard the pad of feet down the stairs. The door in front of them creaked open, and Cayla’s voice rang out in the small space.
“You must be Byron,” she said, as she took Eloise’s hand and placed a worn leather case into it. Eloise deftly opened the case, rushing to push the glasses over her nose. Cayla’s bemused expression clarified before her, and she once again felt tears—this time of relief—bubbling up inside her.
“You must be Cayla,” said Byron, extending his hand. They shook.
“Better?” he asked, looking across at her.
“Better,” she croaked, noting the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, genuinely concerned.
“I’ve left a pot on the stove,” said Cayla, opening the door behind her again and stepping through. “Lovely to meet you, Byron. See you upstairs, El!” She bounded up the stairs two at a time, leaving them alone on the landing.
Eloise turned away from the door to face Byron.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, a smile hinting at the corners of his mouth.
“Thanks again,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.”
He gave a little half wave, turned his back to her, and retreated down the steps.
Before she could stop herself, she said, “Message me if you want to catch up again.”
He turned back, a smile clear on his face now. “Will do.”
Tessa Sophia is an Australian on sabbatical in the south of France. When she’s not writing or getting lost in a good book, you can find her clinging for dear life to a rock face, hiking, or painting. Her fiction has appeared in The First Line Literary Journal — and on her parents’ coffee table.
