Glasses

The train ride from Geneva to Montreux is beautiful with the lake and mountains on one side and vineyards on the other. The conductrice was young and pretty with her pixie cut frosted. On the way back she was on my second train of the day. “I’ve taken your ticket,” she said.

“On the way down.” I handed her the ticket to stamp again. “You’ve a good memory.”

“It’s the glasses.”

It’s true my glasses are huge. I don’t like being able to see the rimes. Almost everyone, except my hair dresser tells me they aren’t “in.” He says he loves my look, I am original.

“They aren’t in, but I like them,” I told her.

“I do, too,” she said and moved on to the next passenger.