Aspie in the Outfield

“I dislike being stabbed in the face,” I said.

“Stop fussing.” Mother shoved the new spectacles over my ears, this time without jabbing my sclera.

I blinked as every speck of minutia rushed into such clarity that my surroundings resembled technicolor glitter sand. “Detest! Despise!”

“You'll see much better with these! Now you can play baseball with the other boys again.”

“Objection! Objection!”

But she drove out and deposited me in the sandlot anyway. Twenty unfeeling boys eyed me and my new eyes.

A mite of good news: I wouldn’t have to wear the glasses anymore once they were broken.