Blindsided

 

It was a normal Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day when people argue outside hardware stores like it’s an Olympic event.

He wanted the vertical blinds.
She said vertical blinds were for "soulless corporate vampires."

They stood on the sidewalk outside Curtain Kingdom, the man gripping a sample book like it was a holy text, the woman gesturing wildly with a color swatch that had names like “Cream Whimsy” and “Mushroom Bliss.”

“You never even LOOK at the blinds when you cook!” she snapped.
“I look at them ALL the time!” he shouted back. “I just… don’t comment on them every five minutes like I’m on HGTV!”

From across the street, I raised my camera. The scene was too good. I framed them in the golden light, just as a pigeon fluttered by like it had emotional stakes in the argument. I clicked the shutter.

That’s when it happened.

She froze. Mid-rant. Mid-sentence. Mid-pointing at her husband’s face.
And then, slowly, she turned her head.

And stared directly at me.

Not just a glance. A connection.
Her eyes narrowed like she’d just realized she was in a documentary. Or maybe a hit list.

She took one slow step toward me.

“You’re taking pictures of this?” she asked, loud enough that her voice bounced off the glass doors of Curtain Kingdom.

Before I could answer, her husband turned around, spotted me, and groaned:
“Great. Now our blinds fight is gonna end up on some art blog called ‘Suburban Despair.’”

She crossed her arms. “Delete it.”
He shrugged. “Actually, I kind of want to see how mad I looked.”

I offered to show them the shot.
She looked regal. Defiant. Windswept like a queen mid-rebellion.
He looked… like a man who had just lost a blinds argument in public.

She studied it, then sighed.
“…Fine. Keep it. But tag me if it goes viral.”