He backed away from the shower stream until it was hitting his chest and allowed the shampoo lather to slide down his forehead. His eyelids were shut tightly.

This was his idea: To allow the suds to settle in his eyelashes.

“Is that white gunk still in your eyelashes?” Anne asked as they sat down for lunch at the diner.

“It might be dried shampoo,” he said.

“Are you not rinsing your face in the shower?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Kurt enjoyed the newfound ability to detect confusion on his wife’s face without the help of contact lenses or glasses. He could see her sandy hair poof just a bit in the back, a hint of teeth between thin, maroon lips and rounded chin. Lint on the black, wood coat. Strands of fabric reaching from the black and white checkered scarf. A melted snowflake on her silky, lime-green collar.

“Why are you staring at my neck?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“I see a line where your makeup ends,” he answered.

“That’s fantastic,” she said with a smirk. “I’m happy you’re using your new powers for good.”

Anne had started referring to his potential 20/20 vision as “powers” when he’d joked about the purpose of laser eye surgery. The procedure would allow his eyes to shoot lasers. But unlike Cyclops, of the X-Men, he would have complete control over the laser eyes.

Still, like Cyclops, Kurt was wearing wide, curved sunglasses.

He was sure Anne had thought this: That if he removed the sunglasses, beams would explode from his open gaze, killing her, burning a hole through her chest. Anne, though, avoided obvious jokes and kept them for herself. Those jokes are why she sometimes smiles for no observable reason.

“Can you read the menu?” Anne asked.

“Power Wrap. Egg whites, grilled chicken, swiss cheese, wrapped in a tortilla shell, served with fruit and salsa.”

“Perfectly,” he said. His eyes returned to hers.

“I can’t tell if you’re looking at me or something behind me,” she said. “How long do you have to wear sunglasses?”

“The doctor said at least three months,” Kurt answered.

“Because of UV rays, yeah?”

“Right.”

“Then why are you wearing them inside?”

Surely UV rays could enter through windows. Since the surgery, Kurt’s second-biggest fear had been UV rays.

His greatest fear was the incision flaps around his corneas coming loose or even possibly falling from his eyes – or sliding to the backs of his eyeballs. The backs of his eyeballs were where “floaters” originated, and if a piece of eyeball were to move back into the socket, might the floaters be magnified?

“That doesn’t make sense,” Anne said two days ago when he voiced the theory.

Presently, he noticed the floaters against the restaurant’s white walls. Floaters – in the random shapes of faded ink blots and jagged tree branches – are detachment shadows. They constantly exist in the field of vision, although eventually, Kurt had stopped noticing them – except when he thought about them.

“Hello?”

“What?” Kurt said.

“I can’t tell if you fell asleep,” she said. “I don’t trust you with those glasses. I asked if you have to wear them inside. You haven’t answered, and I’ve been staring at you for about a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My answer will make me sound stupid to you.”

Her laugh had a hint of scoff. “Try me.”

“I’m presuming that UV rays can travel through windows during the day, so maybe I should wear them in brightly-lit rooms.”

Anne folded her arms. “That’s not a stupid thought.” She smirked. “I don’t know if you’re right or not, so I think it’s reasonable for you to wear the glasses inside.”

Anne had somehow won an argument Kurt didn’t know existed. He shifted his gaze to the left without turning his head. The sunglasses lessened the severity of the floaters against the white wall.

“You’re staring again,” Anne said. “I think the Lasik affected your mind.”

“Well, wouldn’t it have to?” Kurt’s answer this time was immediate.

“That’s not clever,” she said as a waitress approached.

When the waitress – Tracy – turned to Kurt after taking Anne’s order, her expression was one of mistrust. Kurt had lately been detecting this frequently. People don’t trust people wearing sunglasses inside. One of Kurt’s history teachers once said he didn’t trust people who kept their hands in pockets. Kurt was starting to empathize with those who often rested their hands in their pockets.

“Kurt!” Anne snapped. “What do you want to eat?”

Kurt looked at Anne then back toTracy.

“Were you lying when you said you could read the menu?” Anne asked, irritated.

“No, I’m not lying!” He still was looking at the waitress, although he could tell she wasn’t sure if he was looking at her or the ceiling.

“I don’t think you’re lying, sir,”Tracysaid. “Do you need help with the menu?”

The waitress didn’t know how to react, so she reverted to kindness. She might have thought Kurt was blind and Anne was horribly cruel.

“No, thank you.” Kurt smiled. “I would like the Power Wrap.”

Anne smiled softly asTracyleft. “Seriously. How are the eyes? Getting better?”

“I have a feeling I’m at 20/20,” Kurt said, leaning forward. “I still have a little distortion at the corner of my right eye. I think they’re called ‘ghosts.’ Little halos near the incision.”

Kurt immediately knew he was mistaken but didn’t feel the inaccuracy was important enough to express vocally. The decidedly un-medical term “ghost” referred to a kind of double-vision. “Halo” referred to the haze surrounding lights at night. Kurt was experiencing halos but not ghosts.

Anne, he could tell, was considering a joke about ghosts with halos, but she said nothing.

If the distortion wasn’t a halo or ghost, how would it qualify in the optometry handbook?

“Actually, I’m a little worried about it,” Kurt said.

“You shouldn’t be,” Anne said. “The doctor said you might not fully recover until three months after surgery. It’s been three weeks.”

During a follow-up visit about a week after the surgery, Dr. Tolley had suggested the distortion was a result of inflammation near where the razor had sliced a layer of cornea. Two weeks later, however, it remained.

“Your eyelashes have white gunk stuck in them,” Anne said when they were in bed later that evening. “I don’t think it’s shampoo.”

“Me neither,” Kurt said.

“It’s those drops you have to put in your eyes,” Anne said. She was propped on an elbow and running her fingers along the lash tips.

The doctor’s instructions included three drops in the morning, three at night.

“You’re probably right, and probably other things – pollution, dust – are part of the gunk,” he said, turning his gaze toward Anne. “We rub our eyes a lot. I didn’t realize it till I stopped. And now I won’t touch my eyes. Too paranoid.”

“So, you’re saying?”

“I’ve stopped rubbing my eyes, not even in the shower,” he said. “So my lashes are dirty.”

He paused. She waited.

“I was letting shampoo settle in the lashes. I thought that would clean out the gunk. But I don’t even want to let the water hit my eyes. It’s a viscous cycle.”

An expression formed on Anne’s face – one he’d seen many times. It’s an expression of realization – in this case realization the gunk was likely a mixture of shampoo and eye drop residue – and restrained pity, along with lighthearted mocking. It involved tilting back her head and creasing her brow, all while opening her mouth with no intention to speak – a silent “Oh …” Her eyebrows arched upward, and a hint of a smile broke at each side of her lips. And the tell – the unassuming signal the reaction was cheery – occupied her green eyes.

“I can see your eyes from here,” he said. He smiled, and she smiled. “I used to have to be this close” – he pushed himself up and leaned toward her, so his gaze was inches from hers – “to get a good look at those eyes.”

They closed their eyes and kissed.