The room is always dim, venetian blinds habitually set to slant; on one wall, the eye-chart with its giant E, rows of letters diminishing in size; organized miscellany; phoropters; a computer screen, its complex hierarchy of windows and tabs; a box of tissues. I walk my chin to the bar, focus on the red house with the gray path bleeding into blackness, and wait for the puff. Briefly my cornea flattens, like a beach-ball briefly punched. Myopic for forty years, the only recompense is now I see up close; no need to wear bifocals. She takes the glass, a rectangular prism, throws the sun into my open, elongated orbs. We run through lenses, firm up a dilated eye exam; she needs to check if my optic nerves are healthy. In fact she’ll look into my brain, retinal tissue that’s part of my central nervous system; one brain trained to focus on another, pouring over the interior of this awesome organ, rigorously checking for proper drainage. Her eyes are tired, drooping with age, yet still reflect desire. An eye for luxury: in Prada Candy Regular, a logo on her loafers, letters capital and bold.