Contact lenses

March 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

It’s whilst he’s brushing his teeth that he sees them – two thin plastic domes, bluish against the white porcelain. They are side by side, an inch or so from the plughole – he’s surprised she didn’t rinse them away when she was in here earlier.

Before she came back to the sitting room in her glasses, that is. Those old tortoiseshell frames that don’t sit straight on her face. She tells him. She says ‘what’s the point?’, that it’s not as if she ever wears them anywhere she might be seen. He’s never quite sure whether that means that she’s enveloped him in her inner sanctum, or whether she simply doesn’t see him any more.

When she goes out she’s perfect – buttoned down and neatly pressed, hair just so and those blue eyes gleaming. She doesn’t miss a thing.

Around the house, lately, it’s as if she’s given up caring.

Perhaps it’s not lately. Perhaps he’s just not noticed and it’s been going on for months. He saw a grey hair at her temple the other day, half thought to tell her, and stopped himself just in time.

The more he thinks about it the more these inert blue discs that are sitting, stubborn, are assuming an air of judgment – as if his evening ablutions, even, are being watched and found wanting.

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