“Blind”

Her eyes.

It was the first feature of God’s artistic hand that he noticed. His gaze locked on to her pupils, and even though nearly 20 feet separated him from her, the sparkle of each iris was easy to detect.

Blue eyes. Two sapphires. They stared directly at him.

“Please leave me alone,” she said.

Jason expanded his tunnel vision and let the rest of her features come into view. Her thin eyebrows were furrowed, and her red lips were pursed. She turned her head away, hiding her profile behind the curtain of straight brown hair that draped forward over her shoulders. She was clearly upset.

“You’re blind,” she continued, without looking over.

Her gaze was now set on the drink in front of her -- a gin and tonic with ice cubes and a green lime. Besides an old couple that sat far away in a corner of the room, eating a meal and not talking to one another, Jason and the woman were the only two at this establishment.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said. “I don’t understand.”

She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. Placing the glass back down, she looked again at Jason.

“You’re staring at me,” she said, with the same tense gaze. “First, that’s creepy. Second, I’m not interested in whatever you’re offering. And third, I’m not here at the bar to meet someone, I’m here to destress after a stressful week, and I don’t want to do that in a dark, lonely apartment. I’d rather drink alone in a livelier environment, but without the company of others, especially men.”

Jason immediately got the picture.

Her words left him with a mix of guilt, shame and awkwardness. This was the reality of the world. He was a white, single man in his early 30s sitting alone at the bar and that was enough to send up red flags.

James Bond was not a suave gentleman but an alcoholic womanizer. Chivalry didn’t just die when relationships began to sprout from text messages and dating apps, it was blown to bits the day the media showed men who they really were: Pigs. Weinstein represented them all. An attempt at chivalry was simply a pig putting on lipstick.

The best result that could come of this night – and every night that began at a bar thereafter – was that it would end with him going home alone. Jason’s friends were the voices of podcasts, and blue check marks on social media. They were real people, but imaginary friends.

Jason knew that what he said next to this woman – if he decided to say anything at all– would put him in a category. But which category would she place him in? Pervert? Sexist? Pig?

“I’m sorry I was staring, and I’m sorry that upset you,” Jason said. “I sit at this same seat every day. You can even ask Sam, the bartender. But if my presence is making you uncomfortable, I will certainly move and enjoy my night elsewhere.”

The woman took another sip of her drink. For a fleeting second, Jason thought that maybe, maybe he had put himself in a new category – a category which he aspired to land in every time he met a woman that attracted him. It was a category that would rarely lead to any type of relationship, but it was a category that made him feel comfortable as a heterosexual male, and not feel like an enemy to the opposite sex. It was a category called “Kind.”

The woman took another sip of her drink.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Jason’s shoulders straightened. His head perked. A drop of sweat slid down the glass of beer in front of him. Perhaps he had done it?

She continued: “I’m sorry that you come here every day.” She looked at Jason again. Their eyes locked. “You shouldn’t come to a bar every day. That’s not going to solve your problems.”

She took another sip. “I’ll take you up on your offer. Please go sit somewhere else.”  

Creep. That was his category.

Jason’s body drooped. He slid off the stool he was seated on, picked up his beer and proceeded to another location in the bar – likely a seat at a small table far away from the mysterious woman.

But after taking three steps, Jason stopped. He took a swig of his beer and turned back to the woman.

“What do you mean I’m blind?” he asked.

Without missing a beat, she turned her whole body on the stool and faced him. It was the first time Jason noticed her full features – thin legs in tight jeans and breasts hidden under a white-knitted sweatshirt. Casual fall wear for a midweek drink at the local watering hole.

“You’re blind to your own damn point of view,” she said. “If you repeat this story to anyone else, you’ll likely be the character that the listeners sympathize with. You see only my features – my beauty, my body – and you contemplate the impression you give as a man. But not once have you considered my point of view – not once have you put yourself in my shoes.

“That guy, that bar regular, who is dressed horribly and looks hungover, is staring at me. Does he even acknowledge how he looks in public when he tells this story? What exactly will attract me to him? His ability to look sad and play the victim? Does he consider this when he repeats this story?

“All I wanted to do tonight was to drink in peace. This is a right that the man gets to have each time he comes into the bar. But I don’t get that privilege. I have to be some gemstone – an old sapphire on display in a museum with no admission fee. All because I try my hardest not to be the victim. All because I work my ass off to be the best person I can be – to be healthy, and fit, and successful.

“You’re blind,” she repeated. “You’re all blind.”

Jason let her last words hang in the air for a moment. His body drooped even further. He looked down, and, for the first time, noticed that his shoes were untied.

He felt the weight of truth being stacked upon his shoulders. He then walked back to the bar, placed his beer down, left money to cover his drinks and turned toward the exit.

Creep.