Clear Glass

I reached up with both hands and eased the pink frames forward off my ears. The morning light shifted at once. The floor was not rosy at all. The rug was plain cream wool, and the baseboard was bright, stark white. I turned the sunglasses in my palms. A tiny smudge of gray dust sat near the rim of the left oval lens. I pinched the bottom hem of my shirt, pulled it taut, and rubbed the glass in three firm circles. The haze vanished. I held the frames up to the sunbeam, confirmed the clear view, and slid the temple arms back over my ears. Everything settled back into a calm, familiar pink.