Through the Smoked Lens

A pair of heavy dark sunglasses had been left unfolded across the hall console table. I hauled myself onto the polished mahogany surface, marched straight up to the thick frame, and gripped the metal temple arm with both hands. The hinge was stiff, but I threw my weight backward until the smoky, polarized lens angled dead square in front of me. Looking through the curved glass, the harsh midday glare cutting across the runner rug vanished instantly, replaced by a moody, dusky arena tint. The quiet hallway suddenly felt like a massive stage waiting for the lights to drop.