I think it’s finally time to get glasses. Maybe I’m just getting older or maybe I’ve stared into the sun for too long. I can’t make out her face as she feels for ripened avocados across the produce section from me. But maybe I don’t want to, the mystery, curiosity, I dream pleasant fallacies, I’d rather not know the color of her eyes or the mess of old newspapers in her skull. The second I’m close enough to be able to make out her smile I’m done. I don’t want to see her ugly yellow crooked teeth.