A blood vessel broke in my right eye. Woke that way, not knowing, until I looked up to the mirror, contact lens for that eye balanced on the tip of my finger.

I was horrified, and suddenly lightheaded. So qualmy!

The web was no help, buncha hypochondriacs and freakish outlier cases. I called the doctor, she was nonchalant: "It happens to everyone for all kinds of reasons—a sneeze, a cough, things like that. It'll take 7 to 10 days to get better, and it'll get worse before it gets better—because, you know, the blood can move around—but if it doesn't get better, call me. Just be sure to tell them that the other guy looks worse."

Every time I look in the mirror—BAM—bright red.

One of the few practical situations when you can whip out incarnadine.

I stayed home the first day, but after learning it could take two weeks I decided I might as well go out and face the world. No way to hide indoors for that long.

I fretted that coworkers would cringe and say, "What happened to your eye?!" So I prepared a response: "You should see the other guy!" But I never got to say it because they were almost unanimous in silence. I watched the people I see every day lock their gaze on the red eye and then pry it away to look at the normal eye, while abstaining from mentioning it at all, as if my eye had always been that way and it would be crass to mention the deformity. I found myself bringing it up just to break the tension. Only then could they say, "Oh, I was wondering what happened."