The Mean Reds

No longer will I play the field. The field stinks, both economically and socially, and I’m giving it up. — Holly Golightly.

After 20 years of dating and a fruitless year of ‘advertising myself’ online all I’d attracted was raging narcissists without a shred of humanity or compassion. It was at this precise moment that a new message pinged in: You have nice eyes 🙂

I clicked on his profile. He was a bespectacled man who listed ‘empathy’ as one of his interests. I rolled my eyes in disgust and was rewarded with a sharp, stabbing pain, much like a knitting needle in the cornea, as my phone clattered to the floor.

Head banging, pupils bulging, I crouched down and called the doctors surgery: eye hospital, came the response. I then spent the best part of an hour rummaging behind sofa cushions, checking jacket pockets, and peeking under furniture until I located my glasses cowering behind the tv unit. Apologetically, I put them on and jumped on my bike.

The man at the eye hospital administered some drops which momentarily blinded me and increased my blood pressure to volcanic levels, then shone bright lights in my face and told me not to blink. My eyes watered beneath their inflammed lids without cessation until the needling sensation reached fever pitch. Herpetic infection, said the eye doc, handing me a nuclear strength prescription. Mortified, I cycled home.

Unable to work, think, or see without screaming, I visited the acupuncturist. Problem? she said. I pointed to my smarting, red orbs. Ah yes, she said, I can see, without a shred of irony. I lay on the table and she stabbed a needle in my third eye then worked her way around the various pressure points as I swore incessantly behind my mask. How’s your mum? I asked. Dead — passed away in China last month. I plugged her for more information, keen to focus on her pain, not mine. She just shrugged, put a belching frog cd on, and left me to it; temples throbbing, chakras oscillating wildly.

I’m so sorry about your mum, I said, handing her my debit card. Can’t stop crying, she said robotically. That’s good, I said, half wondering if I should give her a tip. See you, she said.

Back home, I emptied the stale contents of a wine glass in the sink and stuffed in the blossom that I’d rescued from an overburdened tree. My phone vibrated all over the kitchen counter. Have you had a good day? It was the bespectacled suitor. I briskly informed him that No, I hadn’t had a nice day, my ‘nice eyes’ were riddled with herpes, and I wasn’t in the right headspace for dating.

I slumped on the couch and flicked on my favourite film, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, in which Holly Golightly, my trusty lockdown companion, famously wears sunglasses in the reading room of the New York Public Library because they’re the only prescription lenses she owns.

Just as Holly was telling her besmitten neighbour, Paul Varjak, about the ‘mean reds’ — The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of — my bespectacled suitor chimed in with:

Oh dear, I’m so sorry about your eyes, that sounds really painful and potentially harmful to your vision. Great you’re getting it sorted, though. Please be good to yourself and get the rest you need. Perhaps the infection was triggered by the stress you may be feeling from not having your needs met, from missing companionship, closeness, intimacy, support, warmth, joy, humour…from not being heard, understood, or truly seen?

My phone clattered to the floor for the second time that day. Empathy. In spades. Fuck me, I said to Holly Golightly, what on earth do I do now?

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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.

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