Below is a sample scene of my idea for a romance story between two women, one of whom is deaf, the other of whom is blind. Despite what the idiotic idiom would have you believe, those of us with sensory disabilities are, in general, more flexible communicators than our able-bodied counterparts. We have to be, since 99% of people communicate differently than us. This is all I have so far, but I think it’s an idea worth exploring. Enjoy!
I reach down the side of the frame to make sure the wheelchair’s brakes are set and feel the reassuring feedback of the metal levers biting into firm rubber. Darting around to face her, I reach for the right sign.
“Are you ready?” I ask with my voice and fingers. She reaches out and corrects my finger posture, then firmly pushes the sign back at me. I smile and know that she is too. I can feel her eyes on my lips. I make a note to ask her what colour they are.
I dart back around to the back of the chair and grasp hold of the handles, allowing the chair to become a extension of my senses. My new source of tactile feedback. From this angle she can’t sign to me but she can still give me directions with her hands on the rails of her wheels. Every time she corrects our trajectory I’ll feel it. This is what we’ve been practicing for. The freedom of swift movement is one of the things I most miss. My limbs itch for it, and I know hers do too.
The muffled click of the brakes releasing tightens my grip on the handles of the wheelchair as gravity starts to pull it forward. We picked this hill carefully. The sidewalk is virtually straight for over a quarter mile and there’s grass on either side. Even without her watching and correcting our course, I should be able to feel if the wheels go off pavement onto the rough ground. Still, I can’t help but fight against the rapid downward pull for the first few seconds. All the things that could possibly go wrong flash through my mind. There’s a sharp jolt from the front right wheel as it bumps onto grass and my breath catches in my throat. I pull back on the right handle right as she pulls back on her left rail, and I loosen my death grip and letting her guide our trajectory. With each successful correction, my confidence grows, and by the time we’re halfway down the hill, my feet are eating up the pavement. It feels like we’re flying and I push my legs harder than I have in months, adding as much momentum to our flight as I can. I want this feeling to last as long as possible.
Too soon, the path levels out and the chair begins to slow. I would keep going but I’m panting for breath and there’s a stitch forming in my side. A fierce smile stretches my cheeks and the windswept strands of my hair fall across my eyes. I brush them away out of habit. Grinning, my legs aching in the best way, I feel my way around the chair, crouching down to make it easier for her to see my face.
“That was awesome,” I say, not knowing the sign. I hold up my palms and she presses a sign into them. “Awesome?” I confirm. She repeats the sign and nods. I smile even broader, mimicking the sign.
All I get is a split second warning. A soft breath on my cheek, before I feel her lips on mine.
Do you want to go again? She signs. Does she mean the hill or the kiss?
Yes, I nod enthusiastically.
I feel the moment when she releases the brakes, the right a split second before the left.