2.2

I can't find my glasses anywhere. The ache is building behind my eyes, and I just know, prescience or experience, that things will get worse. I'm in the store now, and I've already purchased my items before I notice I've picked up a can of ham instead of the black olives I set out for. My burritos will be extremely odd. I hang the grocery bags from my handlebars and push away from the lot. Every car that passes makes an otherworldly noise, accentuated by my growing headache into a wailing song, a keening roar. There's only two turns and two miles to home, but I miss the turn and have to recalculate. I'm deep in a neighborhood I don't really know when a sidewalk creeps up on me and I overcompensate, swinging my handlebars wildly. The bags smash against the front wheel, and the can of ham falls out and lodges itself firmly between the forks and the spokes. My bicycle stops much faster than I do, and I fall head-first to a vaguely-defined ground. Luckily for my spine, my head breaks my fall. Not entirely, I guess, but what little vision I once had is now swimming with stars. I can hear the back wheel of the bike spinning lazily. I can see blue sky and a rim of trees. I notice a small figure loom up on my right. She can't be more than four.
"You're stupid."
She's not wrong. I get back on my feet and walk my bicycle home. It takes me an additional hour, and the sun is setting when I arrive. I strip off my street-grimed clothing and collapse into the shower. Turning on the water, I feel something brush against the back of my hand. My glasses were slung around the cord of an old shower pouf. I put them on, and the steam immediately blanks my sight.