Contacts
by Chris Morton
When Kyle put on his lenses that morning, the walls of his bedroom, usually a tinged vermilion, were now staring back at him in shiny aquamarine.
At first he put this down to a glitch in his contact lens feed, something the system would soon self-correct. Everything else, after all, was where and how it should have been. The mauve carpet, the desk and mirror – his appearance held no minor surprises and as the bedroom door opened smoothly to his kitchenette with not so much as a rumble of complaint, Kyle decided that he rather liked aquamarine.
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