Forever Grey

The subway rattles as it twists through New York’s underground. I stand alone, my hand perched on the overhead pole like a bird of prey. My eyes scan the subway car, dancing from one pair of eyes to the next. All around me, strangers do the same, searching for a glimpse of color.

Searching for their soulmate.

I’ve heard eyes can be a plethora of colors. Blue, green, brown… hazel even. Not red though, strangely enough, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. If you ask me, red eyes would be rather stunning.

Perhaps my soulmate will be the first.

I lock eyes with a girl my age—maybe 19 or 20. Her silvery eyes smile at me through long blonde curls. As soon as she sees the grey in my iris, her eyes dart away like doves.

Next, a boy looks my way. His eyes sweep over me twice, perhaps hoping that some color would materialize on the second glance.

Face after face flashes my direction, each with a pair of hopeful grey eyes. Sure, we aren’t soulmates, but at least we take the time to acknowledge each other—to connect, even if only for a fleeting moment.

What would life be like without soulmates, without the hope of love in another’s eyes? Perhaps we’d all be staring at our phones, distracting ourselves from our own isolation.

If love wasn’t in the eyes, perhaps we’d try to find it where lust resides.

Down the rail car, a girl looks my way, snapping me from my internal monologue. Her gaze is stunning—hypnotic even. Lips, full and pink, curl into a flirtatious grin.

I smile back. Unfortunately, her eyes—like the others—are monochromatically, vapidly grey.

For a second, I consider my worst nightmare: what if my soulmate has naturally grey eyes? It’s not unheard of. My aunt knew a coworker’s friend who had a soulmate with grey eyes. Supposedly, the shade was barely distinguishable. It was a miracle they found each other.

“Excuse me,” a salesman interrupts my thought, flapping a brochure in front of my face. “Have you heard of Eye Love You, the world's first soulmate matching software?

“Uhhh, yeah. I’ve heard of it,” I say. “Everyone’s heard of it.”

The salesman continues his pitch with puppish excitement. “Fantastic! I see our reputation precedes us. As you may have heard, we have the largest database of iris photographs on the market. You may not know this, but the human brain can process 12 images a second? That means you can see 50,000 iris images in an hour. Our software organizes potential matches by perceived compatibility and displays the most promising candidates first. Most of our customers find a match within the first few weeks. What do you say? Are you ready to find love?”

The truth is, I’m not. I’m not ready for a soulmate. I’m not in shape. My room is a mess; not to mention I’m sharing my apartment. Even worse, I’m 50K in debt, and I still haven’t even picked a career path.

In short, my life is a mess. There’s no way I’m ready for the most important first impression of my lifetime.

“I’m not interested,” I say matter of factly.

The salesman opens his brochure, pointing at the pricing plans. “I promise you, it’s really quite affordable. If you sign up today, I can offer you my own personal discount. It’ll only be—”

“I’m not interested,” I repeat. “I'm sorry; I’m just not. Thanks anyway.”

The subway stops, and I take the opportunity to shuffle off with the other grey-eyed strangers. From there, it’s a short walk home and a long hike up the eight flights of stairs. The elevator has been broken since Tuesday.

I unlock the door and throw it open, kicking it shut with my foot. “I’m back,” I call out.

I step into the kitchen and drop my bag on the dining table. Brenda frowns when she hears the thud. “Long day?”

“I guess you could say that,” I groan.

She sits on the sofa, legs crossed, with a laptop balanced on her knees. She has short brown hair chopped just above her shoulders. Her nose is dotted with tiny freckles, like chocolate sprinkles on a scoop of ice cream.

She stares straight ahead. “Still no soulmate?” Never once does Brenda look me in the eyes. She couldn’t see them if she wanted to.

Brenda is blind.

Bilateral retinoblastoma—or eye cancer as she described it. She lost both her eyes at age four, and with them, any chance at finding love. Her prosthetic eyes are grey and beautiful, but they’ll never see. Nor will they shine with color. Not even for her soulmate.

I smile. “Actually, I found her, but I had to set some boundaries. I told her I hang out with Brenda after class, and she’s cool with it.”

Brenda faces my direction and raises an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that?”

I smile wide. “Actually, I told her you’re a guy. I hope you don’t mind.”

Brenda laughs—an adorable burst of joy. “Well, there’s always tomorrow. You’ll find her eventually.”

I found myself staring at her, soaking in every sassy smirk. “How’s the book coming?” I finally ask, plopping at her side. Brenda writes historical romance. I’ve read all her rough drafts. They’re amazing, yet astoundingly still unpublished.

“Which one is this?” I ask, reading over her shoulder. “Laced with love?”

“Actually, this one’s a new work in progress. The protagonist is a blind girl in 19th century New York. A photographer notices her in the street. His soulmate died a few years prior, so the protagonist becomes his muse. Eventually, he wins all these awards, and it drives her crazy because she can’t appreciate his work. In the end, he convinces her that she is the masterpiece. All he did was share her with the world. It’s just a concept at this point. I’m still outlining.”

“And then, let me guess.” Even though she can’t see them, I hold up my hands like two sock puppets. As I move the puppet mouth, I attempt my best girl voice. “Oh, Mr. Photographer, I may not be able to see your sexy face, but did I ever mention I have a heightened sense of touch?”

Then, I exaggerate a manly tone. “Hmmm, I’ll be the judge of that, baby girl.”

Then, I make the puppets kiss, accompanied by undignified smooching sound effects.

“Ewww!” Brenda laughs. “If I ever write like that, please kill me and chuck my laptop in the Hudson.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” I tease. “About your sense of touch.”

She grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“What’s wrong with a little curiosity?” I retort, resting my head on her shoulder. After a few seconds, I can’t help but ask. “Is that your plan? Find a widow someday, like your protagonist.”

Brenda sighs. “Maybe… It’s one possibility.

I nod. “Yeah… or maybe when we’re forty, if we’re still alone, we can just marry each other?”

Brenda smiles. “Well, in that case. I hope you never find her.”

My heart stings. I could live a happy life with Brenda. Our life would be joyful and fun and full of adventure. Part of me wants to do it—surrender to a life of my own choosing: forever grey.

But I can’t shake my internal voice, constantly nagging from within my skull. What if my soulmate is out there, waiting for me? It’s my responsibility to find her, isn’t it? It's the right thing to do... I'm pretty sure, anyway.

“Us getting married?” I muse. “It would have some perks. I’d never have to match my clothes. You’d never see my pimples… or that awful birthmark on my ass.”

“What?” Brenda exclaims. “Why has this never come up?”

“I don’t know. It’s not one of those first-date details.”

“Does it have a texture? Do you think I could feel it?”

I grin. “Not unless you have a heightened sense of touch."

She matches my amusement with a grin of her own. “Okay, fine. You got me. No more intrusive questions.”

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Her lips hover before me, sweet and smooth. I can’t help but wonder what they feel like. What they taste like. Affection fills my chest and makes my head fuzzy. I find myself leaning in.

No! It’s not fair to her. She can’t see me coming. She needs a choice.

“Hey, Brenda, can I k…” I lose my resolve. I can’t lead her on, knowing at any moment I could find my soulmate. I can’t break her heart, no matter how much I want to.

Brenda furrows her brow. “Can you what?”

I sigh. “Can I crash next to you and take a nap? It’s been a long day.”

“Sure thing,” Brenda sings. “But before you get cozy, can you grab my charger from the nightstand by my bed? It’s in the top drawer.”

“Sure thing.” I’m on my feet before she’s done with the sentence. I hurry to her room and open the drawer. The charger is exactly where she described. I pick it up and freeze. There’s a photo in the drawer. It displays toddler Brenda in full color, back before the cancer. I’ve never seen this Brenda. We met as teens—a decade after the surgery—but I find myself staring at the photo... staring at her eyes.

They’re brown. The beautiful brown of milk chocolate. I drop the charger and run to the sofa.

“Brenda... can I kiss you?”