There was nothing objectively terrible about the optician’s truth that was trying to slip out on the morning after Selma’s dream. The optician wasn’t having an affair (nor was there anyone he wanted to have one with); he’d never stolen anything; and he had never lied for any length of time to anyone other than himself.

The optician’s secret truth was that he was in love with Selma and had been for decades. He tried to hide this not only from others but also from himself. Nevertheless, his love for Selma always reappeared before long.

The optician was close by almost every day and always had been. From my perspective he was as ancient as Selma; therefore he had also helped to invent the world.

When Martin and I started kindergarten, Selma and the optician taught us how to tie our shoes. The four of us sat on the doorstep of Selma’s house as she and the optician strained their backs teaching us, bending over our little shoes, tying and retying our laces in slow motion—Selma busy with my shoelaces, the optician with Martin’s.

Selma and the optician also taught us to swim, both of them standing in the shallow pool, water up to their navels. Selma wore a large, frilled purple cap that looked like a hydrangea, which she had borrowed from Elsbeth to protect her Rudi Carrell hairdo. I lay facedown, held up by Selma’s hands, Martin by the optician’s. “We won’t let go,” they kept saying, and then at some point they said: “We’re letting go.” And Martin and I swam, awkwardly at first—our eyes wide with panic and pride—then ever more confidently. Selma hugged the optician joyfully and the optician’s eyes welled with tears.

“It’s just an allergic reaction,” he said.

“To what?” asked Selma.

“To a particular material in that bathing cap’s frills,” the optician claimed.

Selma and the optician taught us to ride bicycles, the optician holding the rack on Martin’s bike, Selma holding mine. “We won’t let go,” they kept saying, and then at some point they said: “We’re letting go.” And Martin and I rode, wobbling at first, then ever more confidently. Selma hugged the optician joyfully and the optician’s eyes welled with tears.

“It’s just an allergic reaction,” he said.

“To what?” Selma asked.

“To a particular material in the bicycle seat,” the optician claimed.

In front of the train station in the county seat, the optician and Selma taught us how to tell time. We four sat together looking up at the large round clockface, Selma and the optician pointing out the numbers and hands as if they were constellations. Once we understood how to tell time, the optician immediately explained how time zones work. He insisted on explaining it, as if he knew, even then, how much and how often time would shift in my life.