"The last time I saw you, you weren't in a wheelchair," she said, explaining what she meant.

I knew what she was talking about but was not sure how to react or what to tell her. I had not told anyone about my first suicide attempt—or whatever you want to call it—not even Vincent.

Irene did not know, did she? She would not have said that if she knew. She would not know it was permanent—she didn't call it the accident or the incident. She would not, could not, have known. It happened in a whole different country, a whole different continent, a whole different part of the world. She called it an injury—something that I could recover from. Something that would not last forever. She did not see me as a cripple; she saw me as hurt, which was not as bad. I remember how I lied to that flat foot and said I was injured—how I bragged to him only to cover myself in some emotion. I guess she was not that bad after all.

We talked a bit more before she asked me a question that I had not heard in a long time.

"Are you okay?"

As someone who used to have a genetic quotient score of 9.8, no one asked me that. No one asks that question nowadays for a truthful response. In public or secret, it was a phrase lost to time. I remember reading about it in one of the history books I kept in my bedroom. Even when it was a prevalent greeting, frankly, everyone lied to it anyway like a worshiper telling their god how great they, themselves, are when the evidence does not back it up. Would I follow the trend or speak the truth?

"I am okay, but I could always be better."

"Does your injury still hurt?" Irene asked, eyeing my legs.

I couldn't feel my legs anymore. That is part of what I suffered from, from no longer feeling my legs again. It did hurt physically, but it damaged my heart when people looked at me with that look. The look that showed pity or told me that I was inferior to others. I still had a GQ of 9.3. I should not be looked down on; I should be looked up to. But it was my fault, and I was a failure in the first place, so did it honestly matter anymore? I guess not.

"It should not hurt anymore."

"So it is healed?" Irene asked with a hit of confusion in her voice.

"I am not sure."

Irene's face only contorted even more when I was saved by the ringing of my phone. I did not get many phone calls, typically only from Vincent's or any of my paid visitors, so I answered it.

"Hello?" I said, holding the flip phone to my ear, farthest from Irene. I looked outside the sliding doors to the ocean, watching the waves curl like locks of hair before they crashed upon the shore in bubbles of white foam.

"It's Jerome," he said, and, for some reason, I felt my lips curl into a smile, "where are you?" He sounded a bit winded—as if he had jogged to some extent before calling me.

"I am on the other side of your sweetheart's property. Just go to the back and follow the path. We are in the first bedroom to your right."

"Okay, thank you, Eugene," Vincent said, sighing and ending the call. "And don't call her my sweetheart." I could only smirk at his latter comment.

"Who was that?" Irene asked, and I almost fell out of my wheelchair as I forgot she was by my side.

I turned to face her and said, "Jerome. He must be lost or something." Irene stood up as if she had just sat on a pin or was a puppet pulled to life by its master. Before she could go anywhere, I said, "You know I am joking, right?" I didn't laugh because it wasn't funny to explain jokes, no matter how stupid they may be.

"Oh," was her curt response. Was she really this serious? Irene turned and looked at her chair as if contemplating whether to sit.

She did not need to decide because Vincent came crashing through the airy door. He held on to it for some support as he caught his breath. Did he truthfully run over here? Irene was faster than me as she rushed to his side.

"Is everything okay? How did the talk with Mission Director Chino go?" She was dusting his suit, her fingers caressing all over his body. Vincent did not seem to notice or mind because he did not say anything about it.

I frowned as their bodies blocked the sunlight, casting me in shadows. That's when Vincent called my name.

"Eugene, can I talk to you?" He looked at Irene. "Alone?" Irene backed off as she took a few steps backwards, across a blue rug, and toward the bed.

"Sure," I said, then wondered why he didn't just tell me this over the phone.

We were exiting the bedroom before Vincent turned and told Irene, "You might want to bring some towels to...Eugene's bedroom, I presume. Oh, and I forgot to ask if it was okay if we stayed the night."

"I assumed you would want to stay the night, and yes, I can complete your request," Irene responded with a quick nod.

"Thanks, Irene," Vincent said and left, not noticing as the corners of her mouth went down like the melting of ice cream on a sizzling day.

I looked at her as I heard Vincent's shoes step upon the wooden patio. She didn't notice my gaze at first as she stared at the blue rug in front of her. Eventually, her head rose, and our eyes met, blue to green.

Like the Red Sea parting, we quickly averted our eyes, and I wheeled away, catching up to Vincent like a dog keeping pace with their master. He walked upon the perfect lawn, trampling the blades of grass with his shoes and leaving natural footsteps in the texture. I deposited the marks of two snakes, always perfectly parallel to each other.