“My guy keeps dying, Mom!” one of them shrieks as the van door slams shut. “Good luck,” she says in a clipped voice. I have accused when I should have asked for help. “I think one of your children took my glasses. ![]() There is a game-over chirrup from the direction of the kids, a yelp of disappointment. I follow the sound of children’s voices, the digital jangle of their video game. A glass case that is covering a map of the state. Not even the slapstick crunch of glass and wire beneath an unlucky palm. I continue to grope around for the glasses that are no longer there. Pulled and bluish, like a fish on the verge of floating. I wipe the loose water from my skin and lean in toward my reflection, my nose nearly touching the mirror. My fingers scrabble over porcelain and close over nothing. Face dripping over the sink, I reach for my glasses. I press my hand to my forehead, my cheeks, my jaw. I hear the rapid escalation and de-escalation of the hand dryers, and when the family evacuates the bathroom, it aches with the relief of emptiness. The water smells vaguely sulfurous, like the Fountain of Youth. They scream, she screams, all of it rising above the rush of the tap. A middle-aged woman with a deflated handbag scolds them. Children with juice-stained mouths are at the sinks on either side of me. I realize I am flinching after my body is already tight with worry she will be enraged if I am late again. I see them before I place my glasses on the sink. It is not my first mistake of the day, but it is the biggest. People of Colo(u)r Destroy Science Fiction!Įn route to visit my girlfriend in Indiana, I pull over at a rest stop in Illinois to wash my face.
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