Look-see
I look up, and I see the dull, beige, rectangular ceiling panels alternating with the dim fluorescent lights.
“Now look down.”
My eyes rotate in their sockets until I see what constitutes “down”: a striped camisole under a blue blouse that is under a white doctor’s coat. “Down” is also the ring on her left hand — it’s one of those imposing stones, jagged enough that if she were ever in a jam she could cut out a circular escape hatch in the nearest plate-glass window.
“Okay, now look at the tip of my pen.”
She talks a little too fast, a little nervous. I try not to think about it as she watches my eyes.
“Now follow the pen as it moves.”
I follow and now notice her glasses: gray, oval frames with tiny lenses. They look good on her. (They also match her shoes.) I bet she spent a long time picking them out.
How many data points are needed to define a descent? First I lose my glasses under dubious circumstances, and now I’m in the exam room checking out the married optometrist. I feel like I’ve reached a new low. And there’s no one around anymore to interject…
The O.D., meanwhile, keeps talking faster and faster.
“Your eyes are so dark it’s very hard for me to see inside I know you said you can’t do the dilation today but if you change your mind you should really come back to me within a couple weeks of today’s exam okay?”
“Let me think about it,” I say.
It’s a lie, of course — I’m done thinking about it. I’m done thinking about a lot of things.
