Sugar and Spice (Synesthesia)
So Matt and I are heading down Main Street, aiming for this bar he knows. He’s taking me to see his friend, Cindy, play in her band to make up for this blind date he organised for me last night that just totally bombed, like it’s a big deal or something. I don’t really want to go, but I know he feels bad about it so I’m playing along.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, man. She’s a really nice girl!” he says as we cross the road by the bus depot; I finish my beer and chuck the empty can over the fence, wishing he’d just drop it.
I mean, yeah, sure she was nice – outright freakin’ hot, actually and totally fuckable – but she had this cutesy high, squeaky voice; every time she spoke my mouth was filled with the taste of cigarette butts in onion icecream and that is just such a turn-off.
Plus she thought I was gay. I can’t help it if a lot of guys have really nice voices; for me, the deeper the voice the sweeter it is. Matt’s voice, for instance, tastes a lot like coffee liqueur and that led to a lot of misunderstandings when we first met at uni. But as pleasant as it is every time he speaks, I’m just so not into guys.
“She was alright. Just wasn’t my type,” I reply and Matt rolls his eyes.
“Nobody’s your type,” he groans. That’s not exactly true. You wanna know my type? Heather Small from M People. Her voice is indescribable – smooth and sweet like the perfect chocolate fudge and incredibly intoxicating. But it’s not like I can tell anyone that. Nothing kills cred faster than admitting your favourite band is the M People.
But Matt’s cool; he just kinda accepts me for what I am without having to go into details. Not that he’d understand if I told him anyway. Even as a kid nobody believed me so I just learnt to keep quiet and try to blend in but it isn’t easy. People can tell that you’re wincing inside when you’re trying to listen to what they’re saying but your mouth tastes like lemon mothballs and salami.
“You know, she thinks you’re an absolute jerk . . .” We reach the bar and it’s crowded; the sound of people trying to talk over each other is like pizza made with all the food in the kitchen with some random items from the garage for good measure. The stage is empty but all set up and ready to go. I make a bee-line for the bar.
“So what’s this band like?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Kinda rockabilly torch songs. Hard to explain,” Matt replies.
“Right,” I nod as the band comes on. People start cheering and whistling, hitting me with a taste like rotting fish. I stick a piece of gum in my mouth and grit my teeth as the intro plays. Cindy’s gorgeous, with long raven hair and a real tight body – kinda like a tasteful Amy Winehouse if she was attractive and less of a crackhead – but looks mean nothing if the voice is no good, so I wait for the verse to let me down . . .
Well fuck me!
I spit out my gum and Matt gives me a strange look, but he has no idea what’s going on in my mouth. All the superlatives you could think of mean diddly-squat compared to her luscious contralto; her voice is so sweet and perfect she makes Heather Small taste like late-night kebabs. For the next hour I am in heaven as Cindy fills me with the most divine flavours I have ever heard. In my mind she is the one and we’re married already. You could not chisel the smile from my face. I’m aware Matt’s slightly weirded out but I don’t care. This is bliss.
After the show Cindy comes up to us, gushing with post-performance adrenaline. She gives Matt this huge hug and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you could make it!” she grins and I hang off her every word, craving her like I’ve nothing I’ve known before.
“You were awesome,” Matt smiles as he returns the hug. “Oh, and this is my friend Jason,” he says, introducing me; I try to speak but my knees start threatening to give way. She’s just too perfect. I stand there gaping like an idiot, but before I can regain control of myself, a James Dean look-a-like in a flannelette shirt grabs her around the waist and plants a long, passionate kiss on her red lips. Lips that should be mine to kiss. “Matt, this is my new boyfriend, Jayden,” she beams when they’re done and you could not measure the hate I’m feeling towards him right now.
“We’re having an afterparty at my place, wanna come?” he says, and my hate dissolves as my world starts collapsing before my eyes: this guy has a voice like Drambuie and vanilla, a perfect complement to hers. How could I compete with that?
Matt looks at me inquiringly, but I just mutter something about having to see my family in the morning; he knows it’s bullshit but he shrugs and says he’ll call me later. I watch them leave, Jayden’s hand in Cindy’s jeans pocket, and my heart implodes. I give up.
I turn to the bar for a beer but I’m jolted out of my misery by a voice like fresh fruit salad and cream. “You ok, love?” the girl behind the bar asks as she hands me my drink, deep green eyes full of concern, and I’m hooked. Sure, I’ve seen better, but I find myself forgetting Cindy already . . .
© Molly Cule, June 2008
