Through the Glass

Resting across the linen cushion of the window bench was an open pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses. I sat back on my haunches for a quiet minute, observing how the noon light pooled in the twin glass circles. Moving without hurry, I leaned my chest forward and peered straight through the left lens. The fine weave of the fabric below suddenly swelled, turning each pale thread into a thick, woven rope. Taking a deliberate step closer, I pressed one plush paw against the curved temple arm. The hinge surrendered with a faint, greasy click, neatly folding closed against the cushion. I tucked my paws beside the dark frame and stayed.