Oh no! Here she comes again. I don’t want to feel her moist hair wet my recently air-dried legs. I usually wouldn't complain at reading with her, but I am upset at her. She hasn’t cleaned me properly in months. I don’t understand how she even sees through me; If I can’t use my own misty eyes, how can they aid her perfectly clean ones? She has just come out of the shower, and I know she is heading towards me in gentle strides because she has a book in her hand. We all know what that means-its either me or Mr. Suave Leave in Conditioner. An almost inexistent flash of hope glimmers in me as she puts the book away. But the stakes are high, and my suspicions are proved correct as she gently takes me out of Container, which chuckles deeply at my unwillingness to budge under her soft hand. My lens are full in the worst kind of foggy mess, where one doesn’t know where it starts or ends. I almost fall out of her hands, if it was because of my trembling in anticipation or her clumsiness, I couldn’t tell you. And then- it happened. My legs met her cool damp, cold hair, and I fit perfectly in the hill that makes up her nose. Anticipation fled over me, but different from before- a good kind, she is going to write in Journal! She hesitates, before grudgingly going over to Container and grabbing the lens cleaning cloth, which met my eyes suddenly and impatiently quickly after she set me down on Counter. I felt Counter vibrate. Was everybody amused by my current situation? Little did they know, I was in for a treat. She hated getting up of her bed. In a matter of seconds, after moving the cloth clockwise and counterclockwise in my eyes, I was clean. She leaned in ever so closely to read the label on Suave Leave in Conditioner. Maybe she was going to try it on after all. I flinched at having to take in the almost honey sweet, lily artificial smell he was made of. Yuck. Finally, she decided to remain as she was, leave-in conditioner-free and all I mean, and put him down. She flumped on her bed, and took out Journal. She passed by the preceding pages quickly, as my eyes made their way through passing entries enjoying the letters of her manuscript that jumped of, slightly different from their brothers and sisters. But in a good way, her manuscript is uneven and unpredictable, which makes it even better. She finally settles on a page, and I stiffen with surprise at her heading: “Ode to my glasses” February 13, 2012. She surely must be bored. But as the letters started flowing out of her pen, I relaxed and enjoyed the praises that were directed at “the inversely magnifying lens that open my reality’s margins and allow me to explore new horizons.” My partners in life gently peeked through Bookshelf and winked at me, by that understand a flap of their pages. Our job was to open the doors of fiction where things like feeling glasses and winking books do exist.