The operation had been a success, all the tests suggested that his sight had been restored completely. He’d been home for a week and a half and she watched as the bandages were taken tentatively off, a long, slow, methodical unwrapping.
He blinked, startled by the sudden influx of colour and shape, edge and contrast. It was so bright, so glaring, setting the neurons in his visual cortex ablaze. It took a moment for him to focus.
She was thrilled for him, they had dreamed of this moment, saved for it, held hands during the long, painful hours of operation after operation, but she was scared too, terrified in fact. What would he think of her when he first set eyes on her? Would he still thinks she was beautiful? Was she? He had fallen in love with her when he was blind, and, selfishly, she had found that beautiful because he had fallen in love with who she was, not what she looked like. Was she beautiful?
The colours and brightness stopped merging and objects came into focus for him and he looked, eyes wide open, drinking in everything. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, “You’re hideous! You’re all covered in hair!”
She was about to start crying, when she realised. “No, silly,” she said, “you’re looking at the dog!”
Sometimes I walk right past
What I’m really looking for.
Distracted by some shiny toy,
Walk through the other door.
Have I walked right past her,
The one I’m looking for?
Not recognised my one true love?
Walked through that other door?