Synesthetic

    Say yesterday you woke up synesthetic.

    It was a very odd moment, that first instant of something-like-consciousness when the Dashboard Confessional taste of cake icing filled your mouth, your radio telling you, firmly, that Its 6:15, lazybones, and you're going to be stuck in traffic again unless you get off the mattress.

    Since your radio, however pompous, is usually right, you rolled out of bed, turned it off, and promptly stubbed your toe. A high-pitched whine began washing up into your ears in time to the waves of pain from your foot, and it was then that you truly noticed something amiss. You stood up straight and looked in the mirror.

    You're hair is a hopeless black bramble in all directions, your eyes sleep-gummed and puffy. You look confused and reluctantly awake, but otherwise no different. Very carefully, staring at your hand, you raised it and pinched your thigh.

    A short, somewhat annoying note sounded in your ear, from the general direction of your leg, just as you winced. You pinched yourself again, to the same result. You tried biting your lip, and this time the sound seemed so near that you actually turned around to find the source. You would have spent more time investigating this peculiar phenomenon, except that by now it was 6:25, and you were in serious need of soapy water. Chalking it up to lack of sleep—altogether likely—you jumped in the shower and turned on the water hot as it would go, because your sister had probably used most of it up.

    To your delight you discovered that warm water felt like velvety songs and sounded like sweet café con leche, so that by the time you got out of the shower you were more awake and in better humor than you could usually boast of. You dried off, the terry cloth caressing lover's murmurs on your skin and the apricot hue of your conditioner scenting the air.

    The drive to school followed routine, except that the jazz on the radio gave off the clean, relaxing aroma of honeyed tea and anise, and the sight of the rainy morning was silky as it brushed your skin.

    After that, your newfound insight duly yielded to vapidity. The drone of the theology professor tasted like morning breath, and after a while the cold in the basement classrooms whistled a clarion note in your ears, but upon reflection, that could almost have been expected.

    It might have even been utterly anticlimactic, except for the sound of anise-jazz as your phone rang midafternoon, the odd circumstance beginning to manifest its scope.

    You answered as calmly as possible, but could still hear that fizzy note in your voice.

    "Hi there." Candy-soda pitched. You winced.

    "Hey, how's your day been?" A combination of tres leches and lemon bars to your ears.

    "Eh... average. You?" Back to your usual cherry coke midrange.

    "Not too bad, got most of my work done for the weekend... Listen, I need to talk to you about something. You want to meet me for ice cream in a bit?"

    It felt as if the soda was fizzing its way up your stomach into your lungs, so that the words were slightly more effervescent than you meant them to be.

    "Sure. When do you want to meet up?"

    "Half an hour sound good to you?" You sternly told the bubbles to burst.

    "I'll see you there!"

    "Alright. Bye!" Click.

    You bit back the slightly bitter aftertaste of being cut short before you could reply.






    Sitting at Maggie Moo's, you nervously tucked your hair behind your ear, then pulled it free to frame your face, then tucked it back, uncertain. Tuck, untuck, tuck, untuck. It always smells like marshmallow there, and yesterday that meant that there was a sort of cushiony fluffiness to the corners of everything you saw. The harsh glare of afternoon sun through the window hurt your sight—or maybe it was your skin that felt needled—and you turned your head and looked at the employee. He smiled slightly, sympathetic. He knew you by sight, though you'd never spoken besides the required minimum for your usual double-scoop mango-raspberry, and he seemed too shy to make conversation. Nonetheless, his smile was a cool breeze to balm your offended skin. You glanced at your watch just as the cowbell over the door clanged.

    "Hey stranger, haven't seen you in a while."

    You looked up, and he was warm sunlight on skin, but soothing. His smile was lopsided and his hair was messy, but he was clean-shaven and the shirt was crisp. He sat opposite to you without a word, still smiling, and the afterthought of his scent made the greens brighten; electrified the blues.

    "What's cookin', good lookin'?"  A tangy lemonade taste coated your mouth at his smooth tenor.

    You couldn't help smiling. "Not much, hot stuff."

    He broke into a genuine grin, and you stifled the surprise at the sensation of hands caressing your waist. His eyes drifted from yours to your hand, which was still tucking and untucking your hair. His smile blurred, refocused inwards; far away from you. Like turning off the sunlight, you were suddenly shivery.

    "Eve, I need your help."

    You knew then that it was not what you'd thought, and though he kept smiling and you kept smiling, the lemonade turned more and more sour on your tongue as he spoke.

    "There's this friend of mine, right? And, well, we've been sort of friends for a while, but it was no big deal..." He looked over your shoulder to the street, and you got goose bumps, hot and cold waves down your spine by turn; warmth with the sight of him, chilled by his words coming hurried and charged.

    "...but then, the other day, we ran into each other, and it just clicked, right? She’s from the country, never really got used to living here, and I was telling her about you and me, and our goofing around, and I really wanted to take her for a day out in the city, and nobody knows the streets like you..." He took your hand, the one that wasn't the one no longer playing with your hair, and his on yours felt like some sort of string instrument, faintly; melodic and melancholy at once. Violins?

    "Could you tell me a few places you think a girl'd like? You know, to give a good impression..." His eyes were crystalline; some indecisive shade between blue and green. It would've been easy to just stare, ignore the request, but the bitterness on your tongue was prominent. You stopped staring and actually met his gaze: a light snap on your flesh.

    And recognizing his expression, hating yourself with a burnt-rubber smell and sandpaper scouring your shoulders, you willed yourself, with all of your senses real and imagined, to make him believe you were fine. You gave him the conspirational grin you'd traded so many times.

    "Buy me an ice cream."

    He whooped and sprung from the chair, construing the affirmative, as you knew he would. A whiff of him sharpened the blues, but quickly dimmed. He sauntered over to the counter, produced his wallet with a debonair flourish. As he ordered your usual, you saw the employee behind the counter duck his eyes away from yours.

    He handed you your double-scoop mango-raspberry sorbet, and as radiant starbursts bloomed somewhere between your watering eyes and the world around you, the boy behind the counter said, in a mellow, apple-cinnamon voice;

    "They're orange and gold, aren't they?"

    You looked up at him.

    "The fireworks, you know... And you always smell indigo blue." Even his eyes looked cinnamon. "A bit more purple, today."



                                                                  


    This morning you got up with liquid gold streaming through the windowpane. You pinched yourself, and sure enough, a short, aggravating note sounded in your ear.

    You headed out to the ice cream shop hoping he works Saturdays.