Synaesthesia Magazine Hush-Hush | Page 29

I counted seven freckles on her left arm. Joe’s lips moved against my ear as he talked. The jukebox swelled with fluorescent music. Now I am accosted by aged aunts and anonymous dates on the arms of men I vaguely recognise as Joe’s friends. “Sorry Violet couldn’t be here… such short notice…” “Your dress! Is it vintage?” “And the invitations – so… cute.” We eat. The men make their speeches, including Mr Rickman, who keeps everyone waiting while he finishes his cigarette in the courtyard. Amid the chirrup and chime of glasses, my tongue remembers the whiskey, the crook of Amy’s downy arm (a naked pool), the glow of the liquid as she held it to my mouth: taste. It was a haze that shimmered on my lips and sank down my throat, like the sun being swallowed by the sea. Amy and I were waiting in the glass-fronted lobby, its mirrored walls a triptych of flashy, polished surfaces. I’d wrapped Joe’s jacket around both of us, hooked around my left shoulder and her right, the fabric turning us inwards. We could see Joe signing papers, checking his watch, shuffling key cards. His jacket fell from Amy’s shoulder and slipped down our bodies to the floor. She kissed me swiftly, then stepped back towards the glass doors, receding into rain, city lights, endless windows climbing upwards. “I have to go,” she said. “Don’t choke.” Did she really say that? Her smile left my face. She was gone in a roar of raven umbrellas splintering the night sky. I turned back to Joe as the elevator wrenched a hole in the wall behind me. He was disappointed. My hands are on his jacket as we move to our first dance, vinyl spinning on the turntable, something new and cool, th