Amputee dating uk
His hair – curly and the colour of Hobnobs – is what I expected. I think of his five profile pictures, the small window into his world that I’ve been granted. There, where his two front teeth should be, is a pink gummy ridge. I think back to those pictures: in all of them his mouth was wedged shut.
His body – slim and clad in a red tartan shirt – is, too. Here, in real life, sitting on a high stool, a half-drunk pint in front of him, I see he matches all of them. I want to spin on my heel, leave right there and then.
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Then, I’d look at my stump, ugly and swollen; at the angry red scars, the result of eight operations, inside both of my thighs.I wore bright, patterned clothes to important meetings as I climbed the slippery career ladder of magazine journalism.Among all of that, when I could, I fitted in dating.Who, on Wednesdays, sang loud, jubilant pop and gospel at my local choir.Who overspent at least twice a week on dinners and drinks with friends.