A Matter of Optics

The hallway had surrendered all its springs and toggles, which left only the balcony threshold to cross. Stepping onto the warm terracotta tiles, I scaled the vertical rungs of the iron balustrade to reach the broad flat top rail. Resting against a corner bracket was an old pair of metal opera glasses, left behind beside a saucer of dried lavender seeds. I braced my boots against the iron rim and leaned my chest into the central focus wheel. With a stiff, raspy groan of aged brass threads, the grooved cylinder turned two millimeters. Down on the sunny street below, the fuzzy blur of a parked delivery van snapped into crisp, rectilinear certainty. Why wander into traffic when dual lenses can compress the entire avenue into two tidy circles?