In a sleepy Western town, where cacti were the only reliable witnesses to the passage of time, Joe, the local mortician, ran his humble business. Joe had a peculiar accessory—his 平淡的sunglasses, plain and devoid of any flair, relying solely on their presence to hint at a life less ordinary.

Across the dusty main street was Cookie’s Saloon. Cookie, a robust woman whose laughter was as potent as her whiskey, ran the place. She claimed it was named after her long-lost dog, though everyone suspected it was more of an excuse for her indulgences. Cookie, with her larger-than-life personality, had a penchant for exaggeration, and it was often said that her stories could make even the tumbleweeds unravel in disbelief.

One blustery afternoon, Cookie propped herself against the saloon bar, eyeing Joe through the swinging doors.

“Those shades of yours ever seen a speck of style?” she quipped, pouring another glass of rye.

Joe adjusted his sunglasses, peering at her from behind the mirrored lenses. “They’re not here for show, Cookie. They see the dying and the living just the same.”

Cookie’s laughter filled the room like a rolling thunder. “You reckon they might help me see how I ended up with two husbands under one roof at the same time?”

“Maybe they could,” Joe replied with a smirk, “if seeing wasn’t half the problem.”

The saloon’s patrons, regulars and drifters alike, watched this familiar back-and-forth, their expressions a tapestry of amusement and curiosity. Cookie, never one to let Joe slip away unscathed, continued.

“Well, these western skies don’t hide much,” she joked, glancing at the sun dipping towards the horizon. “You might just take off those shades one day and finally see what you’re missing.”

Joe hesitated, pondering her words as if they were loaded dice. “Cookie, the day I take these off will be the day I find a soul who needs ’em more than I do.”

Their banter was interrupted by the shriek of a rusty hinge, as Old Man Murdock, the town’s self-proclaimed soothsayer, ambled in, leaning heavily on his cane that had seen better days—or worse nights.

“Joe!” Murdock’s voice boomed. “Got them glasses still? I reckon they’re worth more than just shieldin’ from the sun.”

Joe turned, a sly grin creeping up his face. “You reckon their worth, Murdock?”

“Ay,” Murdock nodded vigorously. “Those aren’t just ordinary shades. They see truths that lay buried.”

Joe’s expression softened. “Murdock, I think you’ve been dipping into Cookie’s barrel.”

Murdock cackled, “Perhaps! But I see the shadows we try to bury. And you? You hide behind them shades from your own shadow.”

Suddenly, Cookie slammed a cup on the bar, shattering the moment. “Enough talk of shadows and shades! Let’s see some action!”

Joe lifted his glasses just a fraction, his eyes unshrouded for a mere instant. Maybe, just maybe, Cookie was right. Though, as he lowered them back, he thought: “What a ridiculous world we live in.”

The day Joe decided to gift his 平淡的sunglasses to Old Man Murdock, whom he saw nodding off in the doorway, the town witnessed something unexpected. Murdock donned them, declaring he could now see every deep truth. Yet, all he saw were cows in pink tutus.

As laughter erupted, Murdock danced with invisible partners across the street. Joe, in disbelief, realized that life, quite like his plain shades, was amusingly absurd. And as the evening sun dipped below the western hills, Joe and Cookie toasted to revelations only stark absurdity could bring.

With that, Cookie remarked, “And there you have it—life in all its simple nonsense.”

Indeed, nothing could quite encapsulate the peculiar charm of a Western evening like a pair of mundane sunglasses and the characters who wore them.