Every so often, an unsuspecting volunteer wanders into my research lab and receives the surprise of his life.
"Please look at the image and tell me what you see."
The study subject before me squints at a field of green flags, varying in hue and saturation, with a few scattered red ones interspersed to form a shape. It's a straightforward baseline test for protanopia, the condition I've dedicated my career to studying. An observer with the typical set of cones on their retina should answer immediately. "A circle." Or "The letter A." Or "A heart." The answer couldn't be more obvious to 98 percent of the study population.
But for those with protanopia, the key receptors for the color red have been missing from their retinas since birth. To their eyes, the red flags in the array simply blend in with the background. The color they've learned to associate with the word "red" would look like some funny shade of brownish-grayish green to the rest of us, and their brains have no way of knowing they've missed anything.
That's the curious thing about protanopia. People don't realize they have it. Not unless someone with typical vision notices the deficit—or some researcher with a double doctorate in optometry and biomedical sciences administers a test.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a form of color blindness?"
I brace for his reaction. Most cases of protanopia occur in males by a quirk of the X-chromosome, and they can have an interesting response to a woman—even one in a white lab coat—telling them they're incompetent at something. They often don't believe me. They'll think I'm messing with them (some kind of psych experiment?), or perhaps my equipment has malfunctioned.
Today's victim invites me to look at the flags for myself, demanding I see the same thing he does.
Too bad the color red cannot be mansplained.
I empathize, of course. I have a few sensory processing differences of my own, and I understand the profound confusion—how it defies the limits of the human mind to imagine a sensory experience we've never perceived firsthand.
But I don't have protanopia myself. I don't have that excuse. "Oh, I can see the red flags just fine," I joke as he peers into the viewfinder again. "My problem with red flags is that I'm attracted to them."
That line never fails to elicit a laugh. The student turns his perplexed gaze on me, no doubt trying to assess if I'm flirting. Ha! As if I would dare venture a toe into those murky waters, with Wallingford University's ironclad zero tolerance policy against inappropriate student/faculty relations.
I'll give this kid the benefit of the doubt. Students don't always register my place in the university hierarchy when I first introduce myself as Professor Cora Glass. I recently turned 30, but they see my youthful features and petite stature and perceive me as a peer instead of junior faculty.
I turn away to record his responses as I toss my standard let-him-down-easy line over my shoulder. "Don't worry, you're safe. I only see green flags when I look at you."
He chuckles. "I guess that's good?"
But I'm not kidding around. Not exactly. I'm dead serious about my issues when it comes to men and flags. I've dated all green flags before, and the attraction always fizzled. The only man who ever held my attention for long, who pushed all the right buttons, who I'm ashamed to admit I still daydream about to this day?
I saw red from the moment I laid eyes on him.
Three years have passed since I met Jamie Bowen in the lobby of the JFK Airport Marriott hotel. I let him hypnotize me for a time with that husky British accent... I let him change my travel plans and commandeer my life. But that's all over now. He's long since walked out my door for good. I only preserve him in my memory as a reminder. He's the reason I'm not flirting with any of my research subjects nowadays. Not even the charming, cocky, age-appropriate ones.
No more men. No more flirting. No more dating. No more sex. I finally learned my lesson, thanks to Jamie. I'm happily married to my work now, and I won't cheat on it again.
"I can give you some reading material on protanopia, but you should follow up with your eye doctor." I turn my attention back to my research subject, switching into my crisp scientist voice. "The good news is, we're working on a new device to correct defects in red/green colorblindness, and you qualify for the intervention. We'll just need you to sign a new form."
I wave over my research assistant and leave the study subject gaping at a pamphlet. Normally, I wouldn't be above handling the informed consent process myself, but it's nearly noon. I have lunch plans. Against my better judgment, Tabitha's convinced me to attend the Dean's Annual Welcome Barbecue this year.
I find her a few doors down in the office we share. Tabitha shuts her laptop and stands to greet me, pulling the rubber band from her purple-dyed hair. She saunters toward me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Hey lady. Ready for some fresh meat?"
I give an unladylike snort. "Consider me vegan. The only meat I'm interested in are the Beyond Burgers."
"Suit yourself." She shrugs as we head for the stairwell and out into the crisp New England sunshine. "No harm looking."
The wind catches my hair, and I clap a hand to my head to smooth it down. I should really cut it short. At least I've let it revert to its natural shade of mousey brown, a far cry from the honey-colored locks that first attracted Jamie Bowen's gaze. I'm hardly recognizable as the same person anymore—which is precisely why I changed it.
"Does Jae know you're out here on the hunt?" I banter back to Tabitha, referencing her fiancé.
She quirks a pierced eyebrow at me. "Of course. Where do you think Jae and I first met?"
"Really?" I drop the sarcasm, genuinely curious. Tabitha and Jae were already an item when I moved here last year from NYC and took up my new faculty appointment at Wallingford. I knew the two of them met on campus, but not the details. If Tabitha ever filled me in, the story has eluded me. I consider her my closest work friend and natural confidante, seeing as we're the only two female assistant professors in Biomed Engineering, but we tend to gossip about departmental politics more than men. Only once, when I had a few too many refills of riesling at the Chair's wine and cheese, did I confide to her about my last relationship.
She nods, referring to her own. "Our two-year anniversary today." She glances in my direction as we make our way through the labyrinth of stone buildings, toward Wallingford's central quad. "You never know who you might meet at these things. I hear there's some interesting new talent."
I roll my eyes. "If that's why you're dragging me to this sordid affair, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
She laughs, a sound I can only describe as a cackle. "OK, Cora. How long have you been single?"
Three years. "Not long enough."
"Spoken like someone who's still hung up on her ex." I see the way she side-eyes me, with that mischievous gleam again. What the hell is she up to?
Hung up on my ex... If she only knew. The truth is, I still see Jamie Bowen all the time. If not every night, more nights than not. He won't leave me in peace.
Not the real Jamie, of course. I've long since blocked that liar from all possible forms of communication. But I'm blessed (or cursed) with a vivid imagination. I only have to close my eyes and focus, and I can conjure up his model-perfect face. More than just the face. His voice... his touch... his knowing hands... his... Well, let's just say, all my favorite parts of him. I can make him do or say anything I want. There when I want him. Gone when I don't. I control his every move. He's the perfect companion nowadays. Why would I want a real man, when I can have imaginary Jamie?
"I am indeed hung up on him," I confess to Tabitha, as we round our way into the university's main quad. "I am happily hung up on the guy who ghosted me three years ago, and I see no reason to replace him."
A volunteer with a tablet interrupts us before she can respond. He inspects our IDs, then hands us each two strings of tickets redeemable for food and beverages. We locate the food line, and Tabitha goes up on her tiptoes, waving her hand above her head. "Sveta! Shalini! Over here!"
I swear, Tabitha knows every woman on campus with a STEM degree—what they're working on and, most importantly, how many publications they have on their CV. I recognize these two postdocs from our journal club. "What's the good word?" Tabitha says by way of greeting as the two women join us in line. "Any promising sightings?"
Ugh. This event really is a meat market. I should have known better than to come. Wallingford is renowned for its incestuous dating scene. There's nothing around us for miles but cow pastures and hiking trails. The nearest approximation of a town is a hair-raising drive down a winding mountain road. Nearly everyone lives on campus as a result, students and faculty alike.
Shalini takes a swig from her beer bottle and gestures with her head. "A bit of alright in the drink line."
"Really?" Tabitha bounces on the balls of her feet. "What department?"
Shalini shrugs. "I don't know, but he already seems to be a fan favorite among the undergrads."
"We settled for ogling from afar," Sveta contributes with a shy giggle. "Over there. In the green shirt. Tall, dark, and—"
"Fit," Shalini interrupts. "I think the word you're searching for is fit."
Sveta smirks. "You're just excited by the accent. Are you going to bond with him over tea and crumpets?"
Shalini's on a visiting fellowship from Oxford, and I take Sveta's comment to mean their new prospect hails from across the pond as well. I don't know why this information makes the blood race to my cheeks. I turn my head, letting my hair swing forward to hide my reaction.
Semi-drunken voices rise in greeting from the direction of the beverage tent. "Hey! Professor! Wazzup?" I follow the sound to the source: a man in a light green collared shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He appears to be surrounded by a gaggle of eager first-years. He has his back to us, but the sound of his dry laughter floats on the breeze across the manicured green lawn.
The sound sets my heart thumping. I would know that laugh anywhere.
Impossible. My overactive imagination must be playing tricks, conjuring up old ghosts. Jamie Bowen wouldn't be caught dead in a backwater like Wallingford—and he's no professor either.
For a moment, our view is blocked. The man has turned in our direction by the time the crowd parts again. I finally catch a clear view of his face, and my eyes fly open wide. For a heartbeat, time stops ticking and everything goes still. The edges of my field of vision blur, but the colors in the center seem to heighten.
He's wearing green, but I'm not fooled. Not the second time around. I don't have protanopia, and all I see is red.