I’ve worn glasses since I could remember sight. I stare at screens behind glass cups thick as a lemur’s palm. I scuttle about toting a heart the size of a citron, the color of a tomato, my favorite machine; in the cold I seize up, and my teeth begin to tap out their secret language. But I'm talking about an afternoon in February, and yes, I confess I was going to seize up. I sat at a blondwood table. You brought me a cup of soda water. I felt my sorrow settle down slowly, like the agitated air in the cup. You hurt your knee sitting down at the blondwood table and the snow began to tumble past the windows. I took off my glasses and stepped into the welcoming fog. February finishes itself like a glass of soda water, leaving a salty taste on my tongue.