Green Glasses

As Sarah sat waiting for the nurse to retrieve her paper cup of two generic headache pills, she rummaged around in a box of glasses next to her chair. They were all sizes and colors, and after examining a few pairs, she slipped some rectangular green frames into the backpack slung by her feet. When she tried them on in the girl’s room five minutes later, she smiled at herself broadly. Her vision was slightly altered with the green glasses. She felt more confident. Her features blurred in the corroded mirrors above the sinks as she concentrated on the details of the frames, and she tossed her hair around her shoulders to perfect the image for herself. She might even pass as pretty with these green glasses. Her pale face did not look so boring. This would be the day her life changed, though stealing glasses from the charity box was such an impetuous event, Sarah would never trace it back to that moment. Her vision would slowly adjust to the slight nearsightedness that the lenses corrected, and in the weeks to come, she would be stare absently at distant faces, not realizing she was gazing directly into their eyes.

Note: I’m inspired to write short exercises of Friday Fiction, in the spirit of this blogger.

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