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Romantic Garbage

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Romantic Garbage

Being blind. It’s bumping into walls and tripping over furniture. It’s not knowing which tap is for hot water or cold. It’s tracing his hand over a bottle of Hutch’s beer, slick and cold in the refrigerator; smelling the hint of bergamot that lingers in a towel.

Starsky turned on the TV, still tuned to Hutch’s favorite channel, and flopped back on the couch, blindfold securely in place. Then got so crazy he tore the damn thing off.

He didn’t have to see him to know he’s around, even when he’s not.

Being blind. It’s a lot of romantic garbage.