Since the eye transplant, people had been treating Liz
differently.
The first time she noticed it, she was buying groceries. “Is that all, hun? the cashier asked, meeting
her gaze. “We’ve got a special on Easter eggs if you’re interested.”
No-one had ever called Liz ‘hun’ before – her flinty face and
pressed suits usually discouraged it. But the girl seemed warm and at ease as
she said it, and Liz was so shocked she agreed to buy two of the Easter eggs.
On the subway, an old man called her ‘love’ as he offered
her his seat, and in her favourite clothes boutique, the sales assistant patted
her gently on the shoulder as she ushered her into a changing room. It was weird.
She was still the same sharp-tongued, mean-spirited bitch
she’d always been. But when people met her eyes they looked down into the soul
of an animal-loving, pie-baking, organ-donating Samaritan and, instead of
cutting her off in traffic or spiking her coffee with decaf, they smiled.
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