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JULIANA GRAY Clark Kent Leaves the Optometrist It’s been three years since my last pair of glasses, almost too long. Of course, it’s hard to find the time for little needful tasks, mundane details—groceries, the mail—that help preserve the public semblance of a man. Never enough hours under the sun. And yet I think it loves me, that yellow sun warming my shoulders, sparking my new glasses. The optometrist’s assistant said a man with gorgeous sapphire eyes like mine should find some frames to show them off, offered to help, then winked at me. “Sapphire”—such a mundane compliment—but that’s the point. Mundane daily life, rising with the sun, drinking coffee, going to work, helping edit copy, writing, cleaning my glasses— even looking vaguely unhappy, I find, is part of the routine of a normal man. When I decided to live and work as a man, it was difficult to learn the mundane. I had no idea how to find an apartment, use the trains—I’m just the son of a Kansas farmer, I joked, pushing my glasses up as if too shy to ask for help. My Planet co-workers tried to help, gave me subway maps and the name of a man with a place to sublet, took me out for glasses of beer I sipped while studying their mundane chatter. One afternoon, a bar of sun fell through the office window and seemed to find my desk alone. You could leave, and find your true place, it said. They need your help, your protection, but you are the Last Son of Krypton—debased by the facade of man. I had been typing, I remember. Mundane work. And then temptation. I removed my glasses. And put my glasses back on, faced the sun. I find I’ve come to love this mundane life, and love helps me become a better man. LOVE AND SEX ...

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