Blind Spot

by Margaux Williamson

Your first thought upon meeting her is that you like the sound of her voice. It’s gravelly with a depth that makes you blush. You make small talk that feels gargantuan because her attention inflates you, expands you. You’re enchanted in an instant. She says to call her X. 


She mentions her cat, a ragdoll named Cherry Anne. That’s a cute name, you say with a smile. X says it just came to her, that it felt right. You nod because you know how it is when things just come to you, when they feel right, like when she texts you two days later at 2 AM, asking if you're up. You say yes because you are. She says come over, so you do. 


Wrapped and swaddled in postcoital bliss, you ask if she sees herself falling in love. She lies still—asleep or pretending to be—and doesn’t answer the question. When she awakens around noon, she seems surprised to see you. She asks if the Uber app is down, and you ask her why it would be.

Margaux Williamson (she/her/they/them) is a Black, Queer reader and writer. Her work has appeared in Complete Sentence, Transients Magazine, EDGE CITY, and elsewhere. She lives in the Midwest with her wife and cat.