by Erica L. Satifka
Today they turned the fog off.
At the office, no work gets done. We walk around holding up paperclips and staplers, rotating them in front of our faces. We smile like Cheshire cats and skip down the halls. In the wake of clarity, we become schoolchildren.
"It's like you're seeing things for the first time," my co-worker Serena says, eyes glazed over with wonder.
"I know," I say, stroking my beard, feeling the fuzz. I return to my cubicle and throw everything in my desk drawer onto the blotter.
This is a Post-It Note, I think. This is a pen almost out of ink. This is a dead fly. I turn the objects over and over until my fingers rub them smooth. The fly disintegrates at my touch, but the other objects stay solid and real.
The boss lets us leave early. As I cross the park on my way to the bus stop, I walk past a circle of six people, all staring directly at the sun.
"We've never seen it before," they say as the paramedics lead them away. The blinded people stumble around like damaged machinery.
"And you'll never see it again," one of the medics replies with a shake of his head. He doesn't appear sad, though. No one does.
Still, life goes on. My wife cooks our usual Tuesday meal of baked chicken and roasted vegetables. The food bursts in my mouth in flavors of bitter and sweet while the clock marks out its endless passage. My wife has dressed herself in the new colors we're all starting to see again, and I don't have the heart to tell her that they clash. She just seems so happy wearing them.