#one second

It was nearly a decade before they’d realised she’d needed glasses, a world of soft focus turned into sharp high definition when they slipped the lenses over her eyes. It had been terrifying, in a glorious sense, every little detail suddenly screaming bloody murder, a butterfly pinned and wriggling on her table, to be analysed and broken down.

The poor vision was still there, though, a frustrating reminder whenever she was forced to take them off. In the shower, or while sleeping. The latter she cheated with darkness, while the former was managed with resentment. 

Sex made a child of her, then, pulling her back into those memories as glasses were tossed aside in the heat of the moment, burned away. Then he’d push, grunt, and enter her, and they’d be blasted clear, leaving a simple ‘Fuck’ in their place.

He was there, but she couldn’t see him. Just the outline, just the indeterminate vagueness that was contradicted by the sharpness of his touch, his smell, the sounds he rammed down her ears. She was half blind, but everything else was increased by a heft fifty percent, each sense overcompensating, throwing her into overdrive. And she revelled in it.

In her mind’s eye, every part of him was mapped with the precision of a surveyor. In her mind’s eye, each moment was being grafted onto her skin with a chisel. In her mind’s eye, everything was twenty twenty.