There were things Nathan couldn’t see. Chairs. Certain animals. Flashlights.
In a restaurant, he would walk to his table, the waitress would gesture for him to sit, and he would reach out with his hands and grope in the air until he felt a chair. He would guess and squat. Most of the time he sat. When he missed, he would stand up and walk away. He would drive to another restaurant and try again.
He had formed habits. He knew he couldn’t see them, those things. Others could. He would use their reactions to guide him.
“Why are you giving me a small lamp? I want scotch tape. What are you doing?”
Nathan hated airplanes. Always invisible. He would squeeze his eyes shut as hard as he could. It was always the same. The aisle, people, seats, all there. Floating through the sky. Nathan wanted to be five years old. He would love the floating airplane rides, then.