A very small pimple-faced child bumped into my leg while I browsed the selection of eyeglass frames. Purple plastic, magenta metallic. He looked up at me with my old mangled pair of glasses in his little fist. Grandma scolded him, obviously embarrassed. She gave an uncomfortable look when I laughed, "he knows exactly what I'm looking for."
The overweight receptionist peered over her latest version frames. She is overworked and fussy, but still cordial. She assures me that my ears are not crooked, and that the eyeball dialation machine will not damage my vision. But I'm not supposed to drive myself home.
Dr. Wolf promptly ushers me into the examination room. I squint, decipher, and dictate as I am directed. We make small talk, and I amaze him with high-altitude stories. His sheltered, submissive posture indicated the need for a good tale or two.
The receptionist winks as I leave.
