Tears roll down my cheeks and leave salty drops in the corners of my mouth. I sniff.

Mr. Cumbert offers me the box of Kleenex. I let go of the air I've been holding inadvertently and gratefully accept yet another tissue.

I wipe my tears, carefully, hissing from the burning sensation in my eyes.

Mr. Cumbert's expression is a mixture of mild amusement, compassion and experience. Of course - he sees this all the time.

"It does get better in a few hours, I promise." He tells me and for the umpteenth time I blow my nose and add another crumpled tissue to the rapidly growing pile in the bin.

"How do you like the effect? Is it to your liking?" he pushes a mirror into my hands.

A heavily blurred woman looks back in the mirror. She blinks like an idiot and looks as if she's having a terrible cold.

My voice sounds nasal as I answer him.

"I look like I'm suffering from some kind of disease."

Mr. Cumbert, the perfect salesman, smiles and tells me it is just a side effect and it will subside shortly.

"Now," he says as he gets up and I feel obliged to do the same "I want you to go outside and get some fresh air."

I feel insecure and the prospect of going out isn't appealing to me at all. I see my host, looking at me, through a mist of tears.

"Outside?! Like this?"

"Yes. Don't worry - once you're outside you will find it is rather pleasant to be away from this air-conditioned environment. Fresh air is really very good for your eyes now."

Not at all convinced I let him push me towards the way out.

"What if I lose one?"

"You won't. Trust me, you won't. Come back here in, let's say - forty five minutes?"

And then I'm suddenly outside. The door of the optician's shop falls back with a soft click and through the warm tears I am aware of the oxygen that reaches me. The weather is great, spring time carries the scent of early blossom and great expectations of the upcoming summer.

Mr. Cumbert was right - it does feel better to be out in the open.

If only I wouldn't feel so bloody uncomfortable, I might even be enjoying myself. If only I could see a little less hazy, I would try to do some window-shopping.

But the way things are now, I'm not likely to do much. I carefully choose my way to the park, which seems like the safest option right now.

I must look like a moron, shuffling slowly towards the park. Although I can't really see them too clearly, I expect the folks around me to be staring at me and think the same.

Tall, almost 6 ft 3, a wild cascade of red curly hair which is totally unresponsive to my attempts of keeping it organised, and then my crying eyes, wet cheeks and constant sniffing must draw the attention of many a pedestrian that I pass.

It's a bit like trying to read the newspaper through a water-filled glass. Everything blurs and shift-shapes constantly.

I hardly dare looking up, I keep my eyes down as much as I can - it feels safer and a little less sore this way.

It takes a lot of discomfort to look normal, I muse sarcastically.

Peering through the watery curtain I eventually reach the entrance to the park.

A stab of pain runs through my right eye. Jezus! What happens! An eye-lash? I blink rapidly, and - ?

It's gone. In a split second I feel the contact lens popping out and my right eye starts screaming thanks for getting rid of the damn annoyance.

Shit shit shit! I lost it. I get down on hands and knees and begin searching the pavement and the edge of the well-trimmed lawn. I know it is futile - it's gone.

Shit!

"Lost something? Need help?" a polite voice inquires somewhere above my head.

Halos still form in my eyes, but I see a pair of Reeboks, sun-tanned legs and as I look higher up I see the typical sports outfit of a jogger.

"Yes! I lost a contact lens!" I cry out in frustration.

The jogger cowers next to me.

"Stay still." He says friendly. "Don't want you to step onto it, right?"

The next minutes we search together for the little piece of silicon - in vain. The thing has disappeared, well out of range of the area we're scanning.

After a while we both get up. The eye without the lens is returning to normal sight with satisfying progress. Thank you! My eye calls in gratitude (don't think I'm insane - they do speak sometimes, the eyes?.!)

I finally get to see the jogger in the face, misty still, but I can see him. Up till now I only saw his damp hair. And the legs - nice legs by the way.

He has dark hair, dark eye brows and beneath that, dark eye lashes encircle his eyes. Green - like mine.

"I'm afraid you've lost that one for good." He says with a face that expresses sympathy for my uncomfortable position. He's nice - real nice.

I nod and curse below my breath, but I've come to accept the situation.

"Can I take you somewhere? I take it you probably don't see much without it, right?"

"I see much better without than with the damn thing!" I reply, sounding a bit more despaired than I intended to.

"You do? That's funny - then why wear one?"

I wipe away the tears that run down the left eye, which is still subject to the lens torture.

He places a hand with long slender sensitive fingers on my arm and makes me face him. His eyes look closely at mine.

"Now I see it - it's a coloured one - brown."

I nod, still blinking and sniffing and trying to look away because his inquisitive looks make me feel awkward.

"Medical necessity?" he wants to know.

His fingers feel warm on my skin. I shiver, I don't know why. And I feel ashamed, and again I don't know why.

"Or trying something else for a chance?" He adds and before I realise what's happening, he pushes me down on a park bench and sits down next to me.

"Hey - are you alright?" he asks, genuine concern in his beautiful voice.

"Yes, I'm okay. Just feel a little ?err? disoriented." I lie conveniently. But - is it a lie indeed? I do feel strange and wish the hand to stay in the same place, touching my arm.

"Why?" He doesn't give up. I feel like telling him everything all of a sudden and burst out:

"Look at me. I'm as tall as tree. I have red hair. It is as stiff as electricity wire. And on top of that I've got green eyes. As long as I can remember people have called me Cat, because of those. Cat Carrot Top, that's me."

My new-found psychiatrist nods his head. I see him hiding a little smile.

"So you decided a change of colour?"

"See? You too find it amusing."

I feel beat and disappointed. He's just like all the others, making me feel like a ridiculous giant redhead.

"Have you got a tissue for me?"

I'm totally surprised to this unexpected turn in our conversation. Well done, Cat, you've just ruined any hope of further contact with this gorgeous jogger. I nod numbly and take out another paper tissue from my bag.

He folds it open and then turns to me.

"Come on - out with it."

My surprise must have shown, because he repeats his words and adds:

"The one still in - take it out and put it in the tissue."

"But -"

"No but. You do as I tell you." He says and somewhere in the distance I hear music that wasn't there before. Maybe he's not like all the other guys.

I do as he tells me, struggle with the lens to get it out and put it in the tissue, which he folds back carefully and hands over to me.

My eyes are grateful for the release of tension and I feel much better at once. Who ever told me contact lenses were painless and invisible?

He grabs my arm and pulls me up.

"Come on, I'll take you back to the optician."

"You do?" did I just think that or did I say that out loud?

I guess I must have said it because he smiles, and ushers me back to where this adventure started earlier this morning.

"Sure." We walk back to Mr. Cumbert's shop. I wipe away the remains of the tears - finally my eyes and nose seem to stop running. I'm almost back to normal.

His fingers touch my elbow for a second and it makes me look up at my companion. I follow his eyes and to my surprise he's looking at a cat, which sits comfortably on a high wall, enjoying the warmth of the sun. It's a Chartreux, a very unusual pedigree cat with a remarkable colour fur: a blueish grey. It's a beauty.

"Nice animals, cats." The jogger mumbles, almost absentmindedly, next to me. A light touch of a smile curls up but I don't think he's aware of me noticing.

Just a few yards away from the optician's place, the jogger, who has introduced himself as Sam, stops and makes me stop too.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and makes me look at the shop windows.

"Now, tell me, Cat, what do you see?"

An attractive brunette with deep brown eyes and glossy lips covers a poster of Lancaster.

"A very beautiful lady, probably earns a million with her brown hair, her brown eyes and her lovely complexion."

A shiver crawls up from deep down in my back, runs across my spine and ends somewhere high in my neck - Sam's fingers touch my hair. It must be my imagination, hair has no nerves but I'm not wrong. I feel how he gently pulls the pin from my pearl hair ornament and releases my wild hair. Immediately it sticks out every way, making me feel like I have an Afro hairdo of the seventies.

"Right. Now - over here." He says behind me and makes me step aside. I don't get it - what's he aiming at?

Still standing behind me, his hand passes my face until his arm rests on my shoulder and he points at something in the window again.

I see myself in a mirror. And I see Sam, his face close behind my untameable bundle of red hair. He brushes it aside and puts his chin on my shoulder, his face tickled by the hair that cannot be controlled. I can smell his body scent, feel his warmth very close to me. It makes me dizzy. Pleasantly dizzy.

"The brunette in the poster? She is beautiful indeed. Very beautiful. But oh, so common. I wouldn't be able to tell what she looks like, fifteen minutes from now."

"But-"

"You, on the other hand, are unusual. Big beautiful green eyes that match your copper hear wonderfully. It is wild - it goes perfectly with your extrovert and impulsive personality. Your length betrays endless legs that men love and women envy. I will remember you, even when I'm old and grandfather of fifteen little brats."

I laugh, the watery, wet feeling of the contact lens struggle is replaced by another moist sensation. Sam's words are so gentle that I actually begin to see myself in different daylight now.

"You, Cat, are one extraordinary woman. Not beautiful in the classic sense of the word but beautiful in every unusual and unique way."

I guess I'm speechless. I'm not one for romantic stuff of in-depth psychobabble. But this guy sure knows how to get under my skin.

I think he sees my confusion, 'cos he turns me away from the window and says, all warmth and smiles:

"Cappuccino?"

I nod and laugh out loud.

"Cappuccino would be great. Just let me get the lens back to the optician." I hate cappuccino.

Mr. Cumbert shrugs his shoulders and wrings his hands after my explanation. Indeed, he's insured and the loss is unfortunate but not all too terrible.

It is however, so he tells me, such a shame I cannot stand the contacts.

"You see, Miss Cavalier, about ten percent of the population are unable to use contact lenses."

I feel like shoving the lens somewhere where the sun doesn't shine. He annoys the hell out of me with his sales manners and predictable way of patronising me.

"It is very unfortunate, but you are indeed one of that ten percent group."

His face lights up to another idea.

"We could try soft lenses of another brand? They are very comfort-"

"I think I can manage." I interrupt and flash him a sarcastic broad smile that cuts off every proposition he's about to make.

My date is waiting for me outside. Green are his eyes, green are mine.

It's not so bad to have green eyes after all. And Cappuccino? I guess I'll get used to it - but he doesn't have to know?.