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Matt senses that he's about to get lost…or worse.
This doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's catastrophic. It means he's not with Foggy, not walking one of his usual paths. It means he has somehow crossed—or is about to cross—a boundary line that separates the known from the unknown. This is not something he ever wants to do alone.
He should never have gotten into the taxi first. Did the substitute guide-interpreter not realize she was supposed to accompany him? His mistake was assuming she would.
Instead, she closed the door and vanished.
He hadn't been worried at first, but what was supposed to be only a few—admittedly slow—miles through heavy traffic has gone on too long. He expected twenty minutes, even thirty. But forty?
Have they veered off course? The cab driver is a stranger who is not likely to read one of Matt's communication cards. Not while he's driving at least. He's even less likely to engage in the tedious process of writing in block letters on Matt's palm.
Matt has no practical way of asking questions. Perhaps everything is fine, and they've merely been rerouted due to construction or something.
Or he—an easy target—is being taken somewhere to get robbed. What are the odds that his tai chi training will work inside a car against a switchblade or a gun?
For once, Matt is glad that Foggy insists that he carry a charged-up, powered-on smartphone that connects wirelessly to his refreshable Braille display. Pulling both devices out of his satchel, Matt spends several frustrating minutes relearning how to send a text message. Anger runs like blood through his veins by the time he sends: cab ride too long. Alone. Feels wrong.
Within seconds, the reply, put me on speaker, comes through churning pistons. This task takes more time. Minutes spill, seep, and begin to stain. Finally, he asks Foggy whether or not he has succeeded.
Yes. I'm going to talk to the driver. Hold on.
Matt holds on, feeling brittle, resentful. The interpreting service will be hearing from him later. He'll use legal language. He will do so with dangerous eloquence. He will not mention how this has made his heart pound and his hands shake.
Everything's fine, Foggy finally tells him. You should have been told about the Pride parade…
Matt stops listening because, for some reason, "Everything's fine" has made him feel worse. Relief brings a backlash of shame.
Whose pride? he writes before hanging up the phone in a petty way, wanting to sit in self-imposed isolation to settle into a deep, quiet rage. When the cab stops, at last, for the final time, Matt gets out, making what he hopes is a loud clatter with his cane. If the driver wants him to pay, too bad. He's deaf and blind, after all. How could he possibly be expected to understand the fare? How unfortunate that yelling at him does no good.
The tip of his cane follows the line of the curb before snagging in a familiar groove. He has made no attempt to proceed forward yet, not before finding this groove and being sure that he's actually in the right place. There's a frail, half-dead tree near the groove, casting meager shade. Yes. He's home.
Foggy is probably watching him from the porch, not intervening, waiting for him to complete whatever confirmation is necessary, ready to agree with Matt's fury. Foggy will put his fingertips on Matt's wrists to "listen" as he discusses all the reasons why this should not have happened. If there is a pride parade, then why the hell is he always in the humiliation march instead?
What he hates the most is the moment when confusion dissolves into fear, a structural collapse. What he hates is that his skills are conditional, having just, once again, been triumphant in front of a robed judge, only to, hardly an hour later, be obliged to call for help using multiple assistive devices (one of them human).
He can feel Foggy continuing to wait as he crosses to the porch and climbs each step. They don't touch each other yet.
Matt folds up his cane with deliberate care, snapping the links together before securing the strap. He is getting drenched in sunheat. Matt's shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. They are standing very close together. The fact that they're not touching is a continuation of Matt's pettiness—one that Foggy is choosing to allow. Too often, "empowerment" is nothing but surface tension.
Matt eases by Foggy, graceful as a dancer orbiting an attentive partner. Their positions reverse as if the moment has been choreographed. Something—the equivalent of eye contact—links them together, holding all the way through this careful moment.
Then Matt is inside. His shoulders ease because he knows exactly where everything is in this tidy, well-mapped space.
He sets his cane down in its designated spot on a wooden shelf that spans three coat hooks. Soon, his suit jacket and satchel occupy two of the hooks, for now. He will retrieve them later, when he's ready. There's too much relief embedded within Matt's certainty that, here, nothing will happen until he's ready.
This is more than a courtesy that Foggy provides. At times, like now, Matt wonders if he's too controlling. Rigid. Self-centered. Simply put, an asshole.
Letting go of the strap of his satchel, Matt sighs and reaches out to sign sorry on Foggy's chest. Foggy covers his fist with his palm, smoothly accepting the apology before repositioning Matt's hand to receive his signs: I didn't call the service. Wouldn't dare steal your thunder. Give them hell.
I will. Believe me.
I have no doubt. It's after five o'clock. Want some wine?
No. I want a beer that's so cold it's on the verge of freezing. I want to drink half of it in one swallow.
Let me watch, Foggy signs with a slowness meant to signal lust. Stand controposto in the kitchen with your face half-lit in a shard of sunlight. I will pay close attention to the movement of your Adam's apple and this spot—
Foggy touches the hollow of Matt's throat with his index finger. His touch lingers.
You'll have to position me carefully, like an art piece, so that I'm properly aligned with said "shard".
Oh, don't worry. I will. You'll be like a vase on a pedestal.
I should resist being objectified in this way.
You should. But, instead, you'll indulge my vice.
Don't you mean vace?
Foggy chuckles gently, mirroring Matt's gradual relaxation process, participating in it, giving permission.
You realize that normal people don't talk like this, right?
Matt, for Foggy's sake, knowing he likes it, raises just one eyebrow and earns another laugh, this one quick.
Okay, yeah, I know, I know. Fuck normal.
Indeed.
Their hands are still joined and will remain so for most of the evening, whether they are talking to each other or not. Still, Matt asks for what he needs more than anything else.
Stay within reach. Please.
In answer, instead of signing, Foggy lifts Matt's hand to his face in the Tadoma position, thumb-on-lips
"Yes. I'll stay close. Of course, I will."
When they kiss, Matt's gratitude mixes with Foggy's vow.
The rest of the evening happens in stanzas, with pauses between movements. Pauses that carry the expectations of etiquette.
Silence is held so as not to break continuity.
It—like Matt—is preserved and valued.