The bathroom light -- necessary but it throws flames into my eyes. I squint so hard it makes a sound.
The mirror -- unavoidable. I see my face through a crust of blurry vision. Mossy and far away. Pillow lines map the path the night has taken, all angles and straight edges. One intersects my eye. Later, at breakfast, she wonders if it's a scrape.
No, I tell her. But who knows, I think, how deep it really runs. I can't feel a thing.