Dr. Gray said the lenses wouldn’t change the shape of things, only make them appear more pleasant. My house is still small, but less like a meth lab urinal and more like a quaint cabin. Warm light floods through spots I don’t remember—the front windows, a small crack in the roof. The harsh lightbulbs glow like lightning bugs. When it rains, the drops glitter in my palms. When the sun sets, it catches the sharp edges of the horizon like a silky veil. I watch a cockroach cross my bedroom. The wood grain of my desk holds a song in its body, and I place my cheek close enough to hear. A few minutes later, I am pulling a splinter from my eyebrow, but even that, dotted red with my blood, is an ode to the gift of vision.
“I’ve never seen you smile this much,” our friend Ivy says at a local bar. “You look good.”
“You look demented,” Sheila says, tucking her chin into her palm. “It’s like you’re high on molly. Your pupils are huge.”
“So?”
“I can’t stand being around high people,” Sheila says.
“You can’t stand anyone,” I say.
“What do we look like?” Ivy says. “Are your eyes like an Instagram filter?” She poses, her full lips gathered into a pink tulip.
“Sort of,” I say.
“Those filters fuck with our perception of ourselves,” Sheila says, taking a sip of beer.
After my husband died, counselors told me my family was full of depressives. My mother was depressed. My father was depressed. My sister was depressed, and her attitude pulled me down. But Sheila was the only person I had. When the lists and the breathing and the color cataloging made me feel like shit, Sheila said that was because things were shitty. The world was shitty. Sometimes, hearing that helped me more than anything.
But not anymore. Now, I can see the world’s beauty. The cluster of golden bubbles itching up the beer glass. The string of shiny faces around the bar. The silk of the dark curls on the bartender, the rhythm of his jaw as he turns, so familiar—
“Are you listening? Hello?” Sheila waves her hand in my face.
I bat her away. “What?”
“What are you going to do if you hear something ugly?”
“Why would I hear something ugly?”
“Maybe someone screams at you. Maybe you hear a murder. What will you do?”
“I’ll deal with it,” I say, looking for the bartender over her shoulder.
“You’re going to get surgery on your ears?” Sheila asks.
“Sheila, it’s a small-scale surgery. Just a pair of lenses.”
“Stop being such a downer,” Ivy says, elbowing my sister.
“Can I get you anything else?” a voice asks behind me. I turn in my stool to see that the bartender is not just beautiful; he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. My husband. An exact copy of my husband. The thick wave of hair, the taut brown skin of his face, the dark hooded eyes. The lips I’ve kissed, the nose I’ve sucked, the crescent scar that halves the left eyebrow. I grip the bar as I stare.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Sheila’s hand cups my elbow. “Hey, take a breath. Are you okay?”
I keep blinking, both wanting him to be my husband and not. Because he can’t possibly be my husband. Because my husband is dead. Suddenly, my eyes feel cold and damp.
“Hey, hey,” Sheila is saying. “Is it your eyes?”
“I’m fine,” I snap, pushing Sheila away and rushing to the bathroom. I wet a paper towel and press it to my forehead, then glance into the mirror. My bottom lids are etched in red, blood rimming my lashes. I soak up the blood with the paper towel.