Wow, that is one nasty purple bruise between my eyes.
The laser felt really strange. My eyes were covered (Doctor, casually: "I'm putting this over your eyes because the laser is toxic to eyes." Me: "WHA--?"), and there was a flash and a puff of air.
"Beautiful. You responded perfectly."
I was filled with pride, though I have no idea what responding perfectly means. The doctor stuck an ice pack on my face for ten minutes, told me to stay out of the sun (I agreed to go to the 6 train and not go above ground again until I switched to a taxi at Grove Street), and had me put on my sunglasses. Not for my eyes, but to hide the giant purple splotch that had appeared instantly where the laser had zapped the blood vessel.
I stared at my New Yorker through my sunglasses on the train. I couldn't really read but I didn't want to meet anyone's eyes. I didn't want anyone to look at me, to see the bruise.
There was no danger of the taxi driver actually looking at me (he was on the phone, of course), and I ran up the stairs to my building without encountering any neighbors. I went straight to the mirror. Eek.
I wish I'd stocked up on more food. I'm not going anywhere for a few days.