1 My husband bought a pair of black-rimmed glasses, claiming they were high-tech. He wore them while cooking, while reading the paper, and he even fumbled to put them on in the dark when he got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. I told him, “You don’t even need glasses, Arthur. Why do you keep wearing those things?” He just smiled, keeping his mouth shut, but when he looked at me, there was a softness in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. I wondered if the old man was going through some late-life spring awakening. So, while he was asleep that afternoon, I slipped them off his nightstand and put them on. The world looked exactly the same. Until I walked past the hallway mirror. Standing in the mirror was a young woman. I froze. The girl looking back at me was Vivian. His first love from forty years ago. I pulled the glasses off, and my own sixty-two-year-old face reappeared. I put them back on, and there she was again. Standing before the glass, I took them off, put them on, off, on. Before I knew it, hot tears were streaming down my cheeks. I cried in silence until the middle of the night. Once my chest stopped aching, I quietly placed the glasses back on his nightstand. The next morning, I went about my usual routine of making breakfast. Arthur leaned against the kitchen doorframe, studying me. “Why aren’t you wearing that white silk blouse today?” He asked, those new black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My hand holding the spatula froze for a fraction of a second. “It’s too tight, Arthur. It constricts my shoulders when I’m working in here.” “Go put it on,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was incredibly tender, a tone he hadn’t used with me in decades. “You look beautiful in it.” I turned my head to look at him. Behind those dark lenses, his eyes weren’t focusing on the deep crow’s feet framing my eyes, nor were they looking at my soft, aging waistline. His gaze was level, but it felt empty, as if he were looking right through my physical form to see someone else entirely. He was looking at the twenty-two-year-old Vivian. “Fine,” I murmured, turning off the stove and untying my apron. In the bedroom, I reached into the very bottom of the closet to pull out the white lace-trimmed blouse he had insisted on buying for me last week. A sixty-two-year-old woman squeezed into a style meant for a twenty-something girl. The intricate lace collar pressed against my sagging neck, looking entirely ridiculous. I looked in the full-length mirror. A thin, aging woman stared back. But I knew that through Arthur’s high-tech lenses, I was a radiant, ponytail-wearing girl in the prime of her youth. I walked back to the kitchen. He was still leaning by the door, and as my footsteps neared, he spun around. A massive, delighted smile spread across his wrinkled face. “Absolutely beautiful,” he whispered, reaching out to gently smooth the lace on my collar. “Just like when you were twenty.” I stared at the deep lines around his own eyes. “Arthur,” I said softly, testing the waters. “Do you even remember what I looked like at twenty?” He stiffened, his eyes darting away behind the lenses. “Of course I do. You were so bright and full of life back then.” “We didn’t meet until we were twenty-three, Arthur,” I said, my voice completely flat. His hand froze in midair. The kitchen went dead silent. After a tense couple of seconds, he let out a dry cough, withdrew his hand, and adjusted his glasses. “Old age is getting to me, I guess. Mixing up the years. Either way, you’re always young in my heart.” He was lying. Forty years ago, when he was twenty-two, the girl by his side was Vivian. She was his first love, the one who had allegedly drowned in a tragic accident after moving out West for work. I turned back to the stove and lit the burner to fry the eggs. “Arthur, I woke up late and couldn’t get any green onions. I put cilantro in your noodles instead.” Arthur despised cilantro. He always said it tasted like soap and stink bugs. But Vivian loved it; I had learned that years ago from reading his old diaries. “That’s fine,” he said with a chuckle behind me. “Cilantro adds a nice kick. Go ahead and put more in.” I stared at the hot oil sizzling in the pan, a cold shiver running straight up my spine. So that was it. No wonder he hadn’t been picky about his food lately. No wonder he looked at me with that sickeningly sweet adoration. He was using those AR glasses to superimpose a dead woman’s face, body, and habits onto mine. I scooped the noodles into a bowl and brought them to the table. He sat opposite me, greedily slurping down the cilantro-filled broth, even closing his eyes to savor every bite. “Is it good?” I asked. “Incredible,” he replied, looking up and smiling through his lenses. “Honey, your cooking is tasting more and more like the old days.” Whose old days? I didn’t ask. I already knew. I set my fork down, staring at the faint blue glow flickering along the edges of his frames. “Arthur, those frames look heavy. Why don’t you take them off while you eat? You’ll hurt your nose.” “No need,” he said, instantly putting a hand over the frame, his posture stiffening defensively. “I’m used to them. I can’t see right without them.” “You don’t have vision problems.” “They’re blue-light blockers! Everything has radiation these days. You wouldn’t understand.” His voice flared with irritation before he quickly forced a gentle tone, dropping a piece of egg into my bowl. “Eat up. It’ll get cold.” Looking at the egg, my stomach turned violently. “I’m not hungry.” I pushed my chair back and walked out to the balcony. Behind me, the sound of his wet, satisfied chewing echoed through the quiet apartment, filled with a grotesque greed. Forty years of marriage. I had believed that even if the romantic spark had faded, we shared a deep, unbreakable bond of companionship. But now, I saw the truth. I was merely a physical vessel, a convenient prop to keep his house clean and cook his meals while he wrapped me in a digital skin. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from our daughter, Lily: Hey Mom, David and I are coming over this weekend. Dad said he’s going to cook for us! I stared at the screen and typed back: Sounds wonderful. Let me know what you want to eat. Just as I hit send, Arthur’s voice drifted from the balcony door. “Who are you texting?” He had crept up quietly, those black frames still glued to his face. “Lily. She says they’re coming over this weekend.” “Ah,” he nodded, his gaze lingering on my white blouse. “Wear this outfit when they come. Don’t change out of it.” That weekend, Lily and her fiancé, David, arrived carrying bags of groceries and gifts. “Mom, Dad! We’re here!” Arthur poked his head out of the kitchen, wearing my floral apron with those black-rimmed glasses resting firmly on his nose. “Lily, sweetheart! Make yourselves at home. Dinner is almost ready.” David set the bags down and walked over to the kitchen with a warm smile. “Hey, Mr. Cooper, what’s with the glasses? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear them before.” Arthur didn’t stop chopping. “Just getting old, son. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” I quietly set the table, refusing to call him out. The man could thread a needle without straining his eyes; his vision was perfectly fine. During the meal, Arthur did something completely out of character: he opened a bottle of expensive red wine. He raised his glass, his cheeks flushed with a happy glow. “David, you and Lily are taking the plunge soon. Let me give you a piece of advice from forty years in the game.” David raised his glass respectfully. “I’m all ears, sir. Hit me.” Arthur looked at me through his lenses. “The secret to a long marriage is accommodation.” He took a slow sip, his eyes glazing over with nostalgia. “Take your mother-in-law, for instance. She has a wild streak. Whenever it rains, she loves to run barefoot across the hardwood floors, and I have to chase her down with a pair of slippers.” My hand froze holding my fork. Lily stopped chewing, looking bewildered as she turned to me. “Mom, you have severe arthritis. When have you ever run barefoot on the floor?” Arthur seemed entirely deaf to our daughter’s voice, continuing to drift through his own memories. “And she’s terrified of the dark. We always have to keep a nightlight on, or she’ll wake up sobbing like a little girl.” David let out an awkward laugh, trying to keep the mood light. “Wow, I didn’t know you were such a romantic at heart, Mrs. Cooper.” I set my fork down and stared at my husband. I wasn’t afraid of the dark. In fact, I was an incredibly light sleeper; even a sliver of light would keep me tossing and turning. For forty years, I had insisted on the thickest blackout curtains money could buy. The girl who ran barefoot in the rain and couldn’t sleep without a nightlight was Vivian. Arthur’s glasses hadn’t just replaced my face; they had rewritten his entire memory of our forty years together. Here he was, in front of our future son-in-law, fondly reminiscing about another woman’s quirks while I, his actual wife, sat there like a transparent prop. “Dad,” Lily finally interrupted, her tone sharp. “You’re getting things mixed up. Mom has never used a nightlight. Just last month, you complained that she kept the room too dark after you stubbed your toe in the middle of the night.” The smile vanished from Arthur’s face. It was as if he had been violently yanked out of a dream, his expression momentarily blank. Then, waving his hand dismissively, he snapped, “What do you kids know? I’m talking about back in the day.” “Not back in the day either,” I said, my voice ice-cold. The temperature at the dining table plummeted instantly. David quickly tried to patch things over. “Well, I’m sure Mr. Cooper is just remembering some fond memories from when they were dating. Anyway, this food is delicious! Mrs. Cooper, these baby back ribs are incredible.” “I made those ribs,” Arthur chimed in, a strange note of pride in his voice. He turned to me, practically begging for approval. “Go on, try one. Isn’t it exactly how you like it?” I looked at the sweet-glazed ribs. They were bright red, glistening with a sticky, sugary sauce. I hated sweet meat. More importantly, I had been diagnosed with type-2 diabetes five years ago, and I never used sugar in my cooking. He knew this perfectly well. I picked up my fork, grabbed a rib, and dropped it straight into the trash can beside the table. “Too sweet. It’s practically pure sugar.” Arthur’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He slammed his hand on the table. “What is wrong with you? I spend hours in the kitchen cooking for you, and you throw a tantrum?” “I’ve had diabetes for five years, Arthur,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Did you really make these for me?” His breath caught. His lips parted, but no words came out. Lily scrambled to her feet, rubbing my back. “Mom, please don’t get upset. Dad probably just had a slip of the mind.” “Yeah, Mrs. Cooper, I’m sure he meant well,” David added quietly. He meant well. Those words pierced my ears like needles. For forty years, everyone thought Arthur was the perfect husband. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, handed his paychecks over, and never looked at another woman. Every anniversary, he would bring home a massive bouquet of lilies. Even though I was severely allergic to lily pollen and would sneeze uncontrollably every single time, he would just chuck me under the chin and laugh, saying, “My bad, I’ll remember next time.” And the next year, it would be lilies again. Because lilies were Vivian’s favorite flower. He used the guise of being a loving husband to mourn his first love, while I was painted as ungrateful whenever I showed even a hint of frustration. I stood up, ignoring my daughter’s pleas. “I’m full. Enjoy your dinner.” I walked down the hall, went into our bedroom, and locked the door behind me. Sitting in the dim room, I could hear Arthur’s muffled voice grumbling from the dining area. “I swear, your mother’s going through a late menopause. Her temper gets worse by the day.” “Dad, honestly, you know Mom has diabetes. Why would you make something so sweet?” Lily chided him. “Well, I just… I was…” He stammered, unable to come up with a decent excuse. I leaned against the heavy wooden door, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. After Lily and David left, Arthur pushed the bedroom door open. He looked thoroughly annoyed, those black-rimmed glasses still resting on his nose. “Did you really have to humiliate me like that in front of our daughter and her fiancé?” I sat on the edge of the mattress, my eyes fixed on him. “Arthur, when you wear those glasses, what do you see when you look at me?” He faltered, his gaze shifting nervously. “What do you mean? I see you, of course.” “Is that so?” I stood up and walked right up to him. Suddenly, I reached out and grabbed the edges of his glasses. “Then take them off. Look at my real face and tell me that.” He slapped my hands away, stumbling backward as he clutched the frames like they were his lifeline. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t touch my things!” “What are you so afraid of, Arthur?” I demanded, locking eyes with him. “Are you terrified that if you take them off, you won’t see Vivian anymore?” The room fell into a suffocating silence. His pupils dilated behind the lenses, his face turning ghostly pale. “You… you’re losing your mind.” “I don’t wear white lace blouses, I don’t eat cilantro, and I don’t sleep with a nightlight,” I said, taking step after step toward him. “Look at me. I’m Mary, not Vivian.” “Shut up!” he roared, pointing a trembling finger in my face. “You’re completely hysterical! Who said anything about Vivian? You’re sick, Mary!” Furious, he spun on his heel, stormed out of the bedroom, and slammed the door shut with a deafening bang. I stood alone in the quiet room, staring at the closed door. He was guilty. But I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Over the next few days, a cold war settled over our home. Arthur stopped asking me to wear specific clothes, and that sickeningly sweet smile disappeared from his face. But he never took off those glasses. In fact, things grew worse. He began spending hours locked away in his study, speaking softly into the empty air. “Yes, that little Italian bistro is still there… Of course, I’ll take you there sometime… You look beautiful in that dress today.” Standing outside the locked door, listening to his hushed tones, the blood in my veins turned to ice. If before he was just using the glasses as a visual filter to pretend I was Vivian, who was he talking to now? Was it an AI? Or some pre-programmed virtual girlfriend app? That Tuesday afternoon, Arthur left to play pickleball at the local recreation center. In his rush, he left his phone on the coffee table. For the past month, he hadn’t let that phone out of his sight for a single second. I walked over and picked it up. I tried entering his usual passcode, his birthday. Incorrect. I frowned. After a moment’s thought, I entered Vivian’s birthday. Click. The screen unlocked. I felt as though a heavy fist had punched me in the chest. Forty years of marriage, and he had changed his password to the birthday of a dead woman. Taking a deep breath, I opened the app on his home screen. It was called Mirage AR, the software linked to his high-tech glasses. As soon as it opened, the interface showed the device was connected. I tapped on the user profile and history. I expected to see some kind of AI avatar builder or custom image filter settings. Instead, I found an active online messenger. There was only one contact in the list. The display name read: Vivian. The status indicator said: Offline. My fingers began to tremble. Offline? This wasn’t an offline AI program. This was a real, live user account on an active network. I tapped on the chat history and call logs. There were daily voice calls lasting four to five hours, perfectly matching the exact times he spent locked in his study. I scrolled down. In a message sent a month ago, there was a photo of a street corner in some European city, accompanied by a voice note. I tapped play. A slightly raspy, aging woman’s voice came through the speaker. “Arthur, do you still remember the taste of those lemon lavender scones from the old bakery? I can’t find anything authentic in the shops over here.” It wasn’t a synthesized AI voice. It belonged to a real, breathing, sixty-something woman. The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the glass coffee table. Vivian wasn’t dead. The woman who had supposedly drowned forty years ago, whose body was never recovered, was very much alive. She was living her life, and through this Mirage AR social app, she and Arthur had found each other again. Finally, I understood the true purpose of those black-rimmed glasses. It wasn’t just a filter to make me look younger. It was a real-time, interactive augmented reality communication device. When Arthur looked at me with those glasses, he wasn’t just superimposing Vivian’s youthful face onto my body; he was using me as a physical proxy while having a live, intimate roleplay with the real, aging Vivian across the ocean. I was nothing but a physical prop for their long-distance trysts. The front door clicked open. Arthur walked in, his eyes immediately landing on the phone on the coffee table, then on me. His face fell. He lunged forward in three quick strides and snatched the device. “Who gave you permission to touch my phone!” He shoved it into his pocket like a paranoid thief, his chest heaving. Looking at his panic-stricken face, I let out a sudden, mocking laugh. “What are you laughing at!” he barked, his voice cracking with defensive rage. “Arthur, Vivian never drowned forty years ago, did she?” The color drained from his face instantly, making those high-tech glasses look incredibly foolish. “What… what did you see?” he stammered. “I saw how you’ve spent the last forty years treating your wife like an absolute fool,” I said calmly. “Is life not going so well for her abroad? Is that why she suddenly remembered you exist?” He gritted his teeth, his jaw working for a long moment before he managed to spit out, “It’s none of your business.” “It wouldn’t be,” I nodded. “Except you’re using my pension to fund your little long-distance romance. That makes it very much my business.” I had seen the transactions in the app’s billing history. Every month, Arthur converted nearly twelve hundred dollars of our joint pension funds into the app’s tokens to send to her account. For years, he had been the one managing our finances. “That’s my money! I earned it, and I’ll spend it however I damn well please!” He finally ripped off his polite facade, revealing the raw selfishness beneath. “And don’t forget, my name is the only one on the deed of this house! If you don’t like it, you can pack your bags and get out!” He pointed a stiff finger toward the front door, his voice booming. He was absolutely sure I wouldn’t leave. A sixty-two-year-old woman with no independent income and no savings, in his eyes, I was a helpless dependent who had nowhere else to go. I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for four decades. The very last trace of affection I had for him dissolved into nothing but ash. “Fine,” I said quietly. “Just wait right here.” “For what?” he sneered. “If you’re going to apologize, don’t bother. It’s too late.” I walked into the kitchen, picked up the heavy meat cleaver from the chopping block, and walked back out. Arthur’s eyes went wide. He scrambled back two steps, his voice shaking. “Mary! Don’t do anything crazy! Murder is a life sentence!” Ignoring him, I walked over to the coffee table and slammed the cleaver down onto his most prized antique porcelain tea set. With a loud crash, the delicate cups and teapot shattered into a hundred pieces. “You’re insane!” he shrieked. I tossed the cleaver onto the sofa and brushed the dust from my hands. “Arthur, your former department is hosting your retirement gala the day after tomorrow.” I looked him dead in the eyes, speaking with absolute clarity. “I’ll see you at the party.” The day after tomorrow was Arthur’s sixty-fifth birthday, marked by a massive retirement celebration thrown by the engineering institute where he had worked his entire life. He had spent decades building his reputation there; he was a man of high standing, with a massive social circle. The gala was booked at the most luxurious hotel downtown, with over a hundred guests attending. Early that morning, he spent over an hour preening in front of the mirror, even using hair gel for the first time in years. He polished those black-rimmed glasses until they shone and slid them onto his nose. “Hurry up and get dressed,” he called out from the living room. “The Director is going to be there. Put on something decent.” I stepped out of the bedroom. I wasn’t wearing any of the cheap lace dresses he had bought to feed his fantasies, nor the white blouse. I wore a simple charcoal wool coat over a black turtleneck. It was elegant, understated, and perfectly appropriate for a woman of sixty-two. Arthur frowned. “It’s a celebration, Mary. Why are you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?” “If you don’t like it, you can always turn off your glasses,” I replied flatly. He choked on his words, glared at me, and shut his mouth. By the time we arrived at the hotel ballroom, most of the guests had already gathered, old colleagues, relatives, friends, as well as Lily and David. Everyone showered Arthur with compliments on how young he looked and praised us for our long, happy marriage. “Arthur, your greatest achievement in life wasn’t your research awards, it was marrying this wonderful woman!” Director Henderson laughed, patting Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur, wearing his glasses, beamed with pride. “You’re absolutely right, Director. Mary has been my rock through everything. I couldn’t have done any of it without her.” He turned to me, his eyes dripping with a sickening display of affection. I knew exactly what he was seeing through those lenses: a twenty-year-old Vivian in a white dress, smiling back at him. He was using this public tribute to me to declare his love to the dead girl in his eyes. Midway through the dinner, the massive projector screen lowered. This was Arthur’s grand surprise. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking the microphone as he walked up to the stage. “Today isn’t just my retirement; it also marks the fortieth anniversary of the day my wife and I first met.” A thunderous round of applause erupted. Lily was filming him excitedly on her phone. I sat at the head table, completely expressionless, watching his performance. “Forty years ago, I had nothing to my name. She stood by me through the hardest times of my life.” The screen began playing a slideshow. It was a series of landscape photos, interspersed with shots of us from behind, cooking, walking in the park. Oddly enough, every photo of me was either taken from the back or heavily blurred. There was only one clear photo of Arthur in his youth, with a long-haired, AI-generated silhouette superimposed beside him. “I know her greatest regret in life was that we never took a proper, beautiful photo together back then,” Arthur’s voice cracked, sounding choked with emotion. “So, with the help of some tech-savvy friends, I used the latest AI technology to recreate her voice and likeness from her youth. Consider this my special gift to her tonight.” The guests swooned, whispering about how romantic he was. My fingers tightened around my water glass. The screen flickered. From the ballroom speakers, a soft, youthful female voice echoed. “Arthur, congratulations on your retirement. You’ve worked so hard these past forty years. I will always love you.” The voice echoed throughout the hall. It was Vivian’s voice. It had been run through an AI filter to remove the age, restoring the bright, melodic tone of a twenty-something girl. Arthur stood on the stage, his eyes red. He closed them, completely lost in the delusion. In front of his family, his lifelong friends, and his colleagues, he was publicly broadcasting his first love’s voice, boldly claiming to everyone that it belonged to me. The room reached a fever pitch of sentimentality. His old buddies began shouting from their tables, “Come on, Arthur! Get your lady up on stage to say a few words!” Arthur opened his eyes and looked at me through those black frames. He extended his hand to me, like a gracious king granting an audience. “Mary, come on up.” I stood up. Every eye in the room followed me as I made my way to the stage. Arthur reached out to take my hand, but I smoothly stepped past him, walking straight to the microphone. The crowd wore warm, expectant smiles, waiting for a tearful response. I scanned the room. I saw the eager look in my daughter’s eyes, the nodding approval of his old boss. Finally, I turned to look my husband in the eye. “That isn’t my voice,” I said clearly into the microphone. The chatter in the grand ballroom died instantly. Arthur froze. The color began to slip from his face, and he muttered under his breath, “Mary, don’t do this now. It’s an AI recreation, of course it sounds a little different…” “It’s not just the voice,” I interrupted, raising my voice to carry over the speakers. “The silhouette on that screen isn’t me, either.” Whispers rippled through the audience. Beads of cold sweat broke out on Arthur’s forehead. He stepped forward, reaching desperately for the microphone. “You’ve had too much wine, dear. Come on, let’s get you sat down.” I shoved his hand away. “Arthur, who is standing on this stage in those high-tech glasses of yours right now?” I pointed a finger directly at his face, my voice as cold as winter stone. “It’s Vivian, isn’t it? The woman who supposedly drowned forty years ago?”
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