He’s relaxing in a leather chair when the ophthalmologist enters and quickly hands him a paddle.
“You know the drill,” she says.
He takes the plastic slab and covers his left eye. He squints at the wall, but rather than yell out a random series of letters, he turns his attention to his eyecare provider of almost forty years.
He warms at the sight of her curly grey hair, her clear hazel eyes, her deep olive skin.
“The sooner you start, the sooner you finish, you know,” she scolds.
He grins at his wife.
“That’s fine. I’ve got all day.”
The Weekday One Hundred 