Mary Ann Notes

Mary Ann felt the warmth of sunlight on her skin filter in through the pink home-spun curtains. She blinked her eyes twice and ran her hand through the full of her face. Her hands retreated the sheets. She turned and looked at her husband.

“Hank? You awake?” she said in a whisper.

There was no response from Hank, outside of the low murmur of snoring she had been listening to all night. She stayed studying the lines on his face until it twitched and he turned on his side.

She looked at the clock. It read 6:36 a.m. She rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom without turning on the light.

In the mirror she studied her face in the trickle of light. She looked closely at herself, ran five fingers through each side of her hair, tore sleep out of each eye, and then looked steadily forward. With the light coming in, she could see her iris’s wider than she had ever imagined them. As she moved closer to her eyes, she saw them narrow. She invented a game there, moving back and forth, looking at the changes in them. Large and small they responded to her steps to and from the mirror.

“So much effort, just for light.” She murmured.

She reached over and flipped the switch. Her iris’s narrowed. She heard Hank make a sound from the next room. She turned, momentarily. She looked into her own eyes, brushed her teeth, quietly.