I should not have left them on the roof of my car. Husband said, “You go through a pair of those every year, I swear.”  I didn’t remind him of the manuscript he left on the roof of his car, an unbound ream of paper, that we had to chase all over Fourth Street for.  Long marriage, you see, long history that one can draw or not draw upon during arguments.  Then he apologized because sometimes it’s five years between pairs, and he loses stuff all the time.  Like our calendar-and-address book in 1996.  That was a car-roof situation, too.

These aviator glasses made me feel like Linda Hamilton in ”The Terminator,” all abs and army pants and guns.  Invincible.  I don’t resemble her.  I wore them even though I’d dropped them on the kitchen floor and cracked a lens.  They weighed nothing, unlike the heavy tortoiseshell plastic frames I favored, which invoke an Audrey Hepburn sort of glamor.  These were more badass, like I may be wearing a skirt or planting daylilies, but you better think about it before you toss me in that menopausal soccer mom cubbyhole.  Think twice. I slide these frames into place and glide out into the apocalyptic world.

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