I really wished our first meeting could be postponed. I believed that in two or three weeks I would recover completely, but he had become very insistent and there was no way I could keep putting him off. He was going to see me for the first time in a state in which I did not want to be seen. And I had not dared to tell him about my problem. All I could do was hope things would go well.

Otherwise, everything had started simply. We became friends on Facebook more or less by chance—participating in the same groups and discovering many shared interests. Then we began messaging privately, and after that came the long phone conversations. In short, we liked each other. All that remained was to meet and see whether our mutual attraction would turn into something serious. Yes, but I was not in good shape, and he didn’t know that. How would he react? I was beside myself with anxiety. But that’s what happens when you hide the truth.

I dressed in an unpretentious dark green blouse and a black knee-length skirt. On my strained legs I put on a pair of childish-looking slippers with bows in a pleasant mouse-gray color. I called a taxi, dusted my palms with talcum powder, and took my Canadian crutches—the ones that had served me faithfully for more than three months. At home I managed without them, but over longer distances I still needed them. They were the problem. Surely he wouldn’t be pleased to see that the girl he liked moved around with crutches. Maybe he would be upset that I hadn’t told him. I wondered how much they disfigured me. I had never had such worries before. After the long weeks in an orthopedic hammock and the months spent in a wheelchair, getting acquainted with the crutches had felt like a happy event. I was glad I could stand again and use my legs. Every independent step gave me confidence and courage to fight for full recovery. So I saw them as good friends helping me return to normal life. Why should I hate something that was so useful to me? Do people with eye problems hate their glasses? Yes, aesthetics come into play, but some people even like how they look with glasses. Whatever I told myself, it still bothered me. I wanted him to see me healthy, confident, and beautiful.

The driver watched me curiously as I carefully navigated the potholes in front of the yard. He opened the door for me and even moved to help me sit, but I cut him off. I didn’t want to rely on anyone, least of all strangers. I settled in comfortably, stowed the crutches, and stretched my legs to give them a chance to rest.

He turned out to be talkative, and I wasn’t in the mood for conversation at all. But so he wouldn’t think me rude, I responded. We discussed the weather, gas prices, and politicians’ antics. As expected, at some point he asked the unpleasant question.