I open my eyes and they just fall out. One straight into my shirt pocket. I pop it back in. One rolls all the way to the back of the bus. It stares at me past the fossilized gum. It looks at a thick chin hair. It looks at my calves like butternut squash. It looks at my buttons screaming. It looks at Brian not looking. “It’s us,” he’s saying, like we haven’t lived here fifteen years. The bus wheezes. The eye pings and pongs. “Left foot,” Brian says, and I squish it with one stomp. He holds his hand out. He wipes some gunk off my one eye. We go home.