He drives the station wagon straight into piercingly sharp sunshine and yet refuses to communicate with me after I have put on my sunglasses. "I can't see you!" He says with the subtle accompaniment of sweet selfishness. "My forehead hurts from squinting." I say back watching as he shakes his head at the large white sunglasses resting on the bridge of my nose. He looks back to the highway. I pull down the mirror and look at the reflection of my self-conscious sunglass state. I take off the sunglasses, squint, shove the mirror back to the ceiling, squint for another minute more, and then I shove the glasses back on, cross my arms, and spit out, "Don't tell me what to do!"
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