He tried saying something agreeable but his mouth sounded full.

Only when I bent closer over Robbie did I see how blood hid the entire blond face. His forehead was a black fringe come all across it. But, odd, he looked so beautiful, even hurt, the damage appeared half-planned. I made no sense. I must find help.

“You all right … I mean basically? Still here, right?” I crouched over him as if scared they might come back.

He turned his head and the street light showed me a great gash above one eye and I could only scream then. I was hurt but alive. Imagine if they had scarred him! I next screamed like some outraged little girl, “Not the face! Not thiiiis face!”

I called it over and over to a God I did not believe in, except, during Serious Uncatered Sewer Emergencies. One second-story window lit, offered the promise of help, fell immediately dark.

I grew practical-nursish. “Stay put, darl. Hart’s off for help. Don’t move.” As if he could! But now he pointed to his face, saying just “Our, ouurs.”

I could always interpret his odd sounds: “‘Eyes.’”

“Your eyes. Yes. Wait. Here, babe.”

I ran two quicksand blocks. My left side was opening and closing, a new vertical mouth. I kept my hand across the opening, scared that the second mouth, like the top conventional one, would now start yowling too. Across the fronts of spice warehouses my voice echoed as I cried for citizens to rally because … it was not just anybody down. It was the prettiest boy in the city now. Was our Robbie down. Eyes! Face! Storefronts seemed mammoth black sandcastles that the next big rain would melt. I found a pay phone but instead of dialing 911 as planned, I heard Angie’s growl, “It’s three a-fuckin’ clock …”

“Angie. Robert and I were walking home …”

And just from this, from knowing my whole sudden voice so well, she started yelling, “Is he … is he … where? He okay? Where?”

“He says his eyes. Meet us at St. Vincent’s.”

The doctor explained that a sort of blindness can happen. The doctor explained it would probably be temporary, probably. The doctor explained. The trauma of a well-placed forehead blow. Our patient would need a lot of care until his sight came back, if it came back, as it likely would in ten days to two months. If not, we should keep the doctor posted.

Me, they sewed up like a pillow.

“No sweat about the care part,” Angie stated. “He is still the prettiest boy in New York, has been this whole past decade as any fool, including you, can probably see.”

“Aha,” the young internist said.

“I like your lab coat. Doctooor … what’s your tag say? ‘Coen.’ Where can I get one, Dr. Coen? You married?”

“Angie, for God’s sake …” She was the limit.

“It’s okay,” said Robert, safe back of bandages. His mouth, without the eyes’ distraction, seemed simple, upturned, and amoral as a cat’s.