The package — sleek and square — arrives. I peer at it through the security camera despite already standing behind the front door. 

I lock my phone and scan my fingerprint on the doorknob. The opaque glass makes a whiiiishhhhhh sound as it slides into the wall. The previous owners described the door as “sleek” but I describe it as “slow as hell.” It shouldn’t take a door ten seconds to open. 

The package is a stark black in my world of grey. I purse my lips. I like to have control over some things — like when I go outside and how fast I open my door. What happens after I open this package is out of my control, just like my marriage was.

I started losing my color during the first year. Kyle was so charming when we met. But after the wedding, his charisma turned my butterflies into hornets. He shot quick smirks at girls in the bar, touched other men’s arms in church, talked for hours on the phone to “Cheryl, you know. You met her last weekend! Remember Cheryl?” 

And I’d say, “No.” 

And he’d say, “You’re so bad with names.”

I remembered Cheryl. I just wished I didn’t. 

Kyle noticed me during my freshman year; he was a senior. and proposed the first spring. Sure, the South has changed a bit with all the “newfangled technology” that drives Gran nuts. “All y’all young folks have to rush everything!” At the same time, she expects couples to marry within a year. “Y’all drag it out for half a decade these days. If you know, you know!”

I hated being a cliché, but I thought I was the exception until I checked the mirror and my cheeks were pale. I had red hair once, too — a wild, raging bonfire. But when my rosy cheeks left, so did my curls, but I didn’t completely lose red until the end. 

A few snoops through Kyle’s texts triggered the next color to leave. I stormed away from our beautiful blue farmhouse into our (formerly) red chicken coop. “Where the fuck were you on May 16?” I yanked a blue chicken egg from a squawking hen. 

And Kyle said, “With Lilly. You know this.”

Lilly, his sister. “With Lilly at the Holiday Inn? Bullshit.”

“If you don’t trust me, this is never going to work.” He dug a carrot out of my planter box.

“This? What do you mean this?” I glared.

He gestured lazily between us. 

 “Jesus, Kyle. We’re married.”

He shrugged and snapped the carrot between his teeth. 

The apathy pierced my lungs, and I deflated. I looked at the fresh blue egg I planned to fry for breakfast. I dropped it. It wasn’t blue, but a pale, lifeless gray. 

Kyle and I stayed together for five years. I begged to paint the house, but Kyle didn’t understand why. 

As the memory fades, “COULEUR LABORATORIES” flashes on the holographic box. The black stands out against the house’s slate palette. Gray floors, white couch, white walls, silver appliances, silver fixtures, and gray shadows cast from vaulted windows. 

I pad toward the kitchen island. The dark countertops are a shade lighter than the box. I search for the fingerprint scanner, but the design makes it hard to spot. Monochrome is so overdone.

My finger hovers over the scanner. I don’t need the clinical trial money. I just need something to do, to take my mind away. That’s what Mom said. 

I told her, “I have plenty to do.” 

And she sighed. “I’ll send you the link.”

I thought after Kyle died that the color would flood back into my life. But when his blood transfer bag rotted from red to black, the color didn’t return.

After the funeral, Mom wrote to me. It just takes time. 

The funeral came and went. Everyone wore black. I ordered a modest pencil dress online and verified the color. I swept my snowy hair into a bun and took a self-driving car to the funeral home.

His mother wasn’t very happy with me. A pale body in a dark casket, pale hair curled this way and that, pale faces scoffing at me, a red dress smirking back at them. My husband was gone, and he took the color with him. If he didn’t want me to wear red, he shouldn’t have stolen it. 

I frown at the COULEUR box. “Alexa, call Mom.”

Vring! Do-duhduhduh-Do-duhduhduh-Do. The call tone sounds like every other alarm in this house. My realtor said, “If it doesn’t sing, it doesn’t sell.” I hate it, but it’s true. 

Mom answers. “Is it there?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. No— Please don’t turn on FaceTime. I look awful.”

Mom grumbles. “You don’t know what you look like.”

I ignore the comment. “I don’t know if I want it.”

“Just try it. You’re getting paid to try it!”

“I know, but —” I start.

“And to write about it! You used to write so much before.”

“Not reviews, or medical—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mom stops me. “You’re desperate.” 

“Don’t mock me.”

She sighs. “Just let the world show you what it has to offer.”

“I’ve already seen the world, Mom. Lots of it.” Kyle traveled a lot for work. When he traveled, I traveled, just not with him. 

“No, you ran through it.”

“I was getting away. That’s different.” 

“The rep said to use it outside. You have such a beautiful balcony by that lake.”

“I know what the lake looks like, Mom.” I want to hang up. “I’m not calling for advice. I just wanted you to know it got here, and you can stop asking me about it.”

Another sigh. “Okay.”

“Alexa, end call.” Vring!

“Good luck—!”

Do-duh.

I stare at the box. In the old house, I’d sit in the kitchen and listen to the grandfather clock ticking or the chickens clucking in the yard. It was country style, with red rags, green cabinets, and warm wood details. I frown at my kitchen. Black doesn’t stand out against white when everything is just a shade in between. Except for this box. 

I press the finger scanner.

Breeeep. Click.

The lid swings open like an old shoebox. Soft electronic chords play, reminding me of ambient yoga music. A hologram of a racially ambiguous woman emits from the center of the box. 

The A.I.’s voice beckons, “Experience the world in COULEUR, a transformative ocular technology.” The woman squints into chrome binoculars shaped like a large horse pill. “With RFID chip integration!” She taps her left temple. A pale sheen washes over her eyes. The A.I. reads a list of side effects, and I yawn. 

The hologram flickers and an image of the chrome pill rotates above the box. It switches colors intermittently to different shades—chrome, slate gray, dark gray, and black. “See the world like never before, in full COULEU–.”

“End narration,” I order. The ambience cut offs. The hologram lingers sadly now that there’s nothing to make it seem special.  

“Open box.” The hologram shutters, clicks, and opens like a lifting bridge. 

I’m underwhelmed. Cheap-looking protective film seals the gray pill, and the “luxury” carrying strap isn’t even real velvet. I lift the pill out and strip away the film; it makes a satisfying shrrrrrrip! The strap magnetizes to both ends.

“Turn on,” I order. Nothing happens. I bring the binoculars closer and notice another finger scanner. I frown and press it. Four lenses slot open, two on each side.

I think of Mom in the backyard of my first house. She held her vintage orange binoculars and pointed across to the swath of trees nearly an acre away. “My, look at that fat robin!” 

I snatched at the binoculars, laughing. “Let me see!”

Kyle grumbled from behind. “Call me when you see a bald eagle or something.” He stumbled inside.

Mom frowned and adjusted her cream cardigan. It used to be blue. I lifted the binoculars and frowned, too. “Are you sure that’s a robin?”

Mom maintained her frown. “Of course it is. Look at that orange belly.”

“That’s not orange.” 

She scoffed. “Oh, please. Now you’re just teasing me.” She nudged my ribs and pointed. “That one on the low branch.”

I held my breath and looked again. The feathers were dark all over except for a light gray belly. I jutted the binoculars back to her.

“What is it?” Mom scowled. Ironically, a bald eagle wouldn’t have caused such a fuss.

“Nothing.” She wouldn’t figure out I was colorblind until I had an episode in the hospice room after Kyle breathed his last.

During online orientation, a COULEUR representative instructed all participants to “record everything.” The built-in video camera automatically streams to HQ, but I must keep a written log for qualitative data. The representative emphasized that 50% of the log should be written directly after use and 50% as a reflection.

I had no plan to write anything. Sure, I’d forfeit the money, but as long as they forwarded an email to Mom that says, “Unfortunately, Ellen Slate wasn’t a successful candidate. COULEUR appreciates her participation,” then it would be worth it. 

The balcony door whiiiishhhhhhes open, and I step out into the warm spring afternoon. It looks drab and cold but feels lukewarm. I can’t discern any signs of life from the sea of gray. The leaves blend together. The lake on the horizon looks like living ice, and I’m nauseous trying to focus on the waves. A dull throb wakes behind my eyes. This is why I don’t go outside. 

I close my eyes, take a few breaths, and lift the binoculars. 

Color explodes like a kaleidoscope. Green, brown, red, yellow, blue, orange — a storm of memories, everything I knew before Kyle, and what I lost during him. My heart splinters. It’s worse than any betrayal he hurled my way — worse than the last drop of red leaking from his blood.

The binoculars slip from my grasp as I retch over the balcony’s edge. The velvet strap saves the tech, and I don’t vomit anything except a burning mix of water and bile. 

“Fuck. This,” I pant. Sweat forms on my forehead, which I swipe away. I peek around the yard. The monochrome world I cursed minutes before was a comfort to me now.

“I’m going to bed early,” I squawk at the house. 

Vring! Alexa always listens. The rooms dim as the vaulted windows shutter quietly. I sleep for ten hours. 

Weeks pass. I enter the kitchen with a food delivery. It’s sushi — salmon and cucumber and cream cheese, heavy with sodium and high in flavor, but, like everything else, a blob of gray. 

Alexa announces: “Text message from MOM.”

“Ignore.” 

I take a bite. I can’t imagine what salmon looks like. A faint memory of an old salmon-colored dress flashes into my mind, but the shade is off. My memories are nearly colorless, too. The pill glints at me from the counter, waiting patiently. I remember retching on the balcony and shiver. 

Another bite. Surely, using the binoculars inside wouldn’t be such a hazard? I yank out the pill, scan my finger, and press it to my eyes.

I start slowly, staring at the wall. White. Okay, I can handle white. Then to the fridge, chrome. Pan to the counters, a gorgeous mix of black stone with brown veins spiderwebbing across. Then, the sushi. 

I freeze. I can see the salmon, actually see it. Cubes of light orangey-pink blink up at me. Shiny lime-colored cucumbers awaken, too. I stare and stare and stare until my eyes dry up. I dart into the bathroom for some eye drops.

I glimpse a sliver of the red couch and laugh crazily. Red. Red! I run around the house in a mad dash, inspecting everything from a pink crystal perfume bottle to multicolored embroidery on a sweater in the laundry delivery. 

I return to the kitchen and adjust the binoculars. Through the windows, I catch a slice of the backyard. 

The COULEUR representative pops into my head. Try them outside for the best results. I slam my palm onto the balcony’s scanner. Ten seconds feel like several agonizing lifetimes.

Without the binoculars the world is still gray, white, black, and more shades of gray. It’s comfortable to look at, but it’s not real. 

I lift the pill and see a leaf pulsing green. 

I spend hours out there, staring and laughing and scribbling haphazard thoughts onto a napkin. When darkness falls, I retreat from the mosquitoes to transcribe my notes into my laptop, and stare at the sushi more. It’s cold, but my stomach grumbles all the same. It looks so good!

Vring! Alexa chimes to notify me about the laundry delivery for the fifth time, and I remember something I’ve needed to do for weeks.

“Alexa, read last text message from Mom.”

Vring! An A.I. interpretation of Mom’s soft, southern voice reads: I don’t care what happened. I love you, El. Just call me please.

I swallow. “Alexa—.” I stop myself. 

Sunlight peeks through the window and reflects off my phone. I walk to it and dial my Mom; I still remember her number. She answers.

“I’m writing something,” I say. 

I picture Mom’s pink grin cracking on the other line. “Well, are ya gonna show it to me, or what?”

I smile. “I’ll send you the link.”

~

www.couleurlaboratories.com/usertestimonials

USER TESTIMONIAL #54

by Ellen Slate

May 18, 2046

I spot my neighbor gazing at nothing as his golden-haired dog grazes the yard, sniffs the pink worms, squats, digs up green grass, and reluctantly hobbles inside after her olive-skinned owner.

The binoculars make two hundred feet a hairsbreadth away. In a dream, I could have reached out and brushed the dog’s soft fur, plucked a piece and handed it to the breeze, witnessed it ferried away to the land of the lake, becoming fodder for brown water rats to nest with.

A red squirrel pounces, tail twitching, nose searching, then disappears through the fence to terrorize the neighbor’s chickens. The rooster charges. The squirrel darts up the shortest bark-stripped tree. 

A black hen, red-faced, abandons her digging ground to hop the fence separating the chickens from the garden. The rooster (with a blonde hen trailing close) surveys the scoured ground the black hen left behind —

The red squirrel makes a mad dash past the rooster! He clears the iron fence to join the few chickens who treat the fence as less of a barrier than a challenge. They peck happily at worms on the squirrel’s side, a grubby oasis next to the barren, grassless leftovers of the coop’s perimeter on the rooster’s side. 

I took out these binoculars when I heard a bird sing. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful song, nor a melody of any kind, just a sharp awwwwhh, awwh! I squint through the lenses, and my eyelashes feel odd on the glass — there! A bird flies past. I swivel. 

Ah, it’s gone.

But now, a red one! Awwwwh, awh! A cardinal?

And there, across the lake, chirpa chirp, chirpa chirp. Who knows its name? Mom does. If the birds sat in one place, I could memorize their shape.

Chika chika chika chika. Quick staccato from the neighbor’s oak tree. I scan the moss-tinted branches. Their flailing gray arms look tangled but aren’t; each twig and hearty limb has their space. Most of the top branches are bare. Squirrels clump brown leaves into the crevices.

An evergreen shields a jumbled nest. Is that momma bird? No, a leaf flapping. Soon enough, it will be a home for her. Perhaps the babies are already hatching. I strain to listen. 

A dirty yellow truck obstructs my view of the shiny green lake. It churns up its engine and blasts a persistent whirrmmmmmrrrrrmmmm. The birdsong drowns away. Even worse, a leaf blower revs. A blue jay sweeps in. Smaller birds scatter. Now I hear my A/C whirring. My ears choke on metal. They need something living to wash it down, like the creek, how it babbles under a stone bridge and spills white ducks into the lake. 

I scan the golden shore, imagining the quack, honk, hiss. There, the ducks and geese lay. Sometimes, they get along.

A brave little bird’s chirpa chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp battles the machines. The machines go silent. The bird keeps chirping.

A pale blue heron glides over the lake.

A lady with an orange beak and gray coat meets secretly with a foxy red gentleman under the greenery of a large bush. The cardinal from before? What a scandal!

The ashtray next to me stinks. I throw away the butts. The lovers disappeared. 

Wwawawwawawawa. 

Who makes such a silly sound? Little birds flitter and flounce between our trees. Many of these balcony birds must be sought out. Unlike the red-tailed hawk, they don’t parade themselves, flaunting lazy circles around the vulnerable multicolored hens below. The rooster crows. The hawk gives up today. 

I hear someone’s eyes turn to me. I turn to my left, the binoculars zoom in on ginger fuzz. I set the binoculars down and see a little furry person staring straight at me. She’s full-color, allowing me a moment to see her, to tune in on what she’s trying to tell me without a pane of glass separating.

She grasps the crumbling tree bark with strong hands, asking, “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.” Her head tilts. “Why? There’s so much to see from that balcony. Just look at me!”

I grin. She scurries up to her nest. I put the binoculars on the table and gaze at the brown trees, the green lake, the blue birds, and the red squirrels until I’m so sleepy I can’t manage another blink.