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he’s probably wearing a shit-eatin’ smirk.  I just shake my head and reach back around for my paints.  There’s no point in arguing with either one of us—him or myself. Neither is going to make it easy to resist him.
    “Evie?” he whispers, his voice close, sending chills racing down my arms.
    God, the way he says that… It’s like I can picture him saying it during sex, with his hands on me and his mouth on me and… God !
    “Yes?”
    “You smell incredible. Like sweet oranges.  Makes my mouth water.  Makes me want a taste.”
    I swallow, which is difficult because my mouth is the opposite of watering. It’s as dry as a bone.  “It’s my…it’s my body wash.  It…cheers me up.”
    “It makes me…thirsty.  For something juicy and sweet.” 
    I clear my throat and try frantically to collect myself. Out of sheer desperation, I force my attention back to work before this gets out of hand.  I’d hate to get myself in trouble right here in front of a class full of children.
    I have never…
    “Okay, everybody, let’s start with the stem.”
    Thankfully, Levi goes along with my change in direction. 
    I grab four tubes of paint, two that I need and two to show something to Levi, and I squirt a streak of each onto the pallet.  To Levi, I explain my process.
    “Over the years, I’ve learned to tell the difference in the way certain colors feel.  The braille on the side of these tubes tells me that they’re van dyke brown and sap green, mars black and zinc white, but to me they feel different.”  I take Levi’s hand again and dip one finger into the white.  “Now rub your fingers together.”
    Levi does as I ask. I feel the tendons in his wrist working because I’m still lightly holding the base of his hand.  I can’t seem to make myself let go.
    “Feels sort of like toothpaste, doesn’t it?”
    “Yeah, it does.”
    I take a towel from the table and wipe his fingers clean then dip one into the black paint.  “Now tell me how this one feels.”
    “It’s a lot thinner, like oil.”
    “Exactly!  Some people can’t tell the difference at all, but most can.  I’ve just done this for long enough, and my tactile senses are so developed, that I can tell the difference between dozens of colors.  The whole process is called ‘haptic painting’. It just means to use touch.”
    “So that’s how you mix your paints to get such beautiful colors.”
    My face heats, and I know I’m blushing.  “Yes.  That’s how I get what I hope are beautiful colors.”
    “They are.  Trust me. I’ve never seen anything like them.  They look like they could leap off the canvas.  Become a part of the air, part of the real world.”
    I fall quiet, as does he.  As we stand facing each other, neither able to see the other, something happens.  Something shifts. Something changes. 
    I don’t know what it is or how to describe it, but I know it’s significant. I can feel the difference.  The irrevocable plunge into something deeper, more meaningful.  Like some invisible cog clicked and fell into place, and now we just…fit.
    Maybe it’s that, for the first time since losing my sight, someone has bothered to come into my world to find me.
    Maybe it’s that he was looking for me, searching for me, as much as I was looking for him, even though I thought I’d given up.
    Maybe it’s that he seems to understand me now.  Really understand me. 
    Or maybe it’s just my overactive imagination.
    It could be.
    But I hope it’s not.
    For a woman like me, hope is a dangerous thing.  For people with disabilities, dashed hopes can be crushing. They’re harder to recover from. 
    I know as surely as I’m standing here, as surely as I feel his body heat gushing toward me, that this man could destroy me.  That this—whatever this is—could be devastating for me.
    I should run.
    I know I should run.
    But I know that I won’t.
    I know that without a doubt, too. 
    Because some things are worth hurting