SWARTHOS

The morning hit me like a freight train, careening through the haze of a sleepless night, straight into the sterile purgatory of the ophthalmologist’s office. I’m there, perched on the edge of a cracked vinyl chair, when this wheezing, hacking bastard stumbles in, a walking biohazard with a chip on his shoulder. He’s coughing up half his lung, sneezing like he’s auditioning for a plague documentary, and—despite a sea of empty seats—plants himself right next to me, close enough I can smell the stale coffee on his breath. He’s pissed, radiating that special kind of resentment you only get when someone beats you to the door. I was here first, pal, deal with it. His eyes burn holes in the side of my head, but I’m already checked out, flipping through a dog-eared magazine from 1997, waiting for the universe to call my number.

Finally, they summon me—second in the door, fourth called, because that’s my life, a cosmic game of being just off the mark. The tech, some kid with a Star Trek pin on his scrubs, ushers me into a dimly lit room that smells of antiseptic and broken dreams. He’s got this blue light contraption, a glowing orb I’m supposed to stare into, and I’m half-convinced it’s a mind wipe device straight out of a Klingon interrogation chamber. We banter about Trek—Kirk versus Picard, the usual nerd liturgy—and I play along, building rapport, keeping the vibe loose. He dilates my eyes, drops stinging like napalm, and my vision starts to wobble like a bad warp drive. I’m whisked out, handed off to the main event.

The doc’s waiting in the big arena, a petite Japanese woman with a calm that could disarm a riot. She’s pleasant, professional, but those bright lights she’s shining into my skull are pure sadism. My eyes are fully dilated now, pupils like black holes, and every beam feels like a photon torpedo to the brain. “Follow my hands,” she says, waving them in front of me. Follow? I can barely see the wall! Still, I track her movements like a drunk pilot chasing a landing strip, squinting through the blur. She pronounces me fit for duty—Duty Now for the Future, I think, channeling Devo’s manic energy. One medication’s scrapped, another’s prescribed, and before I can blink (not that I want to), I’m shown the door.

Outside, the world’s a watercolor smear, light stabbing through my dilated eyes like a thousand tiny daggers. I stumble home, half-blind, dodging shapes that might be cars or might be hallucinations. Back in my sanctuary, I crack open a bottle of Barefoot wine—cheap, reliable, the kind of swill that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Three glasses down, and I’m comfortably numb, floating in a warm haze while my eyes scream at every stray photon. The dilation’s a cruel mistress, turning even a desk lamp into a supernova. I crash for a bit, slip into a dreamless void, and wake up still riding the edge of the wine’s soft buzz.

Now I’m awake, the room dim, the world still a little too bright. I’m thinking about burning some incense, letting the smoke curl up to the ceiling, hoping it’ll carry the rest of this day away. Earlier, I fired off a text to an old friend—former friend, maybe—asking if we’re still cool. No reply yet, and the silence is its own answer, but I’m not sweating it. I’m just riding the wave, nothing too heavy, just enough to keep the engine humming. The haze’ll clear eventually, and I’ll see you on the other side, when the light doesn’t hurt so much.