His glasses give me fits.

They’re the drugstore kind—he parks them low, crookedly. They’re in the way. They cloud up with stuff like pollen and chicken dust and maybe even the drips from the heat of his brow. UG.

How would he like it, I wonder, if I wore mine southward, snugged against the fat of my cheeks? Went around looking like Hag Lady? But here’s the thing. Hag Lady is right. It fits. It’s very discouraging. The list of my own quirks, were I to begin one—oh, never mind. Let’s not go there.


 

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