Green (by Tom Hamilton)
It was just before my 37th birthday that I found I could no longer see the colour green. Looking out of the train window on the way back from Brighton I remarked to Peter that it was curious that all the meadows were flooded in mid-August, during a prolonged dry spell in which much of southern England was under a hose-pipe ban. He looked at me strangely. 'Flooded?'
I laughed. 'Darling, don't be silly. Look at the cows up to their ankles in water, poor things.'
He raised his eyebrows and looked at me, slightly puzzled, his head on one side. Then he squeezed my arm, sighed and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until we pulled into Victoria. I read my book, glancing up occasionally at the shimmering, glassy fields. I forgot all about it once we were back among London's brash electric lights and muted greys. Perhaps I would have noticed earlier than I did that there was a problem if we had travelled home on the District Line.
[The short short story comp is announced and explained here.]