I'm sitting here writing and editing and double checking all sorts of stats at Eye On Life e-zine. Feeling great about it, but not feeling great in general. After a rather odd week of goings on that made me feel a bit as though I were in the twilight zone, I seem to have developed an odd crick that runs from the top of my neck round the outside to the bottom of my left shoulder blade. Sometimes I can feel it on the outside of my ankle, no not a good sign, though that is not as painful as the place in my shoulder blad that would just like to get pressed in for a nice long amount of time.
In between thoughts I find myself looking over at Dave, as usual. I am enjoying the fact that he is sitting there near me, relaxed, at times chuckling, thoroughly occupied in his readings and writings. I assume it has to do with our online writers group, and yes, I check now that is precisely where his focus lies.
This evening, nearing night, dark out, yes, but not quite ten, I am noting that he is wearing an interesting pair of reading glasses. He has had to wear them (reading glasses) more and more often as of late. He has brought home many a pair over the last few months, though I do believe these are my favorites. They have no rim. The handles are chrome/black, and they don't quite fit over his ears. It is not that they are too small, it is because he has the nose piece set down a bit so that they rest partially down his nose, a stripe of reflected light crossing his cheek.
I've come to like the look of my guy in glasses. Truth be told I have always liked it. There is something about it, like the something that fascinates me about the lines that crawl and transform themselves on the sides of his eyes. They are filled with the telling of so many things that brought smiles, the need to block too much sun or smoke from the tilt of his cigarettes, and the squint in hopes of seeing what lies on a page or a screen a bit better. The same lines that brought on my dear's need for reading glasses.
Sometimes these lines are impatient, crowd eachother, or smooth themselves to sleep. Always, they appeal to me. I find that they, like the reading glasses are two fetishes of mine; and a new wonder now comes to mind. How many other fetishes might I have that remain to be acknowledged and dreampt upon?
