“Actually,” you say, and stop. Your throat feels thick, your voice too high. “I probably should have told you. I can’t read the menu.”
She says nothing, but you can feel the bewilderment rolling off of her.
“I mean, I can read. I learned how to. I have a master’s in English. It’s just, I can’t read now. Because — ” you pause, because this is the tough part, and there’s no good way to say it — “I’m going blind.”
“Oh,” she says. There’s a depth to it, a swimming pool full of meaning. You want to go drown yourself in it.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That must be — I mean, it’s got to be really hard.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “I mean, it’s not, but I’m fine, you know?”
There’s a pause so wide, Evel Knieval would be hard-pressed to clear it.
Finally, she says, “So, about the menu. Do you — need help reading it?”