Synesthesia

Synesthesia They say that the senses have no memory. They say that a sensation flames upon us a moment and is gone, leaving no trace. We long to remember. We are tired of waking with blank eyes, blank hands, blank mouths. We want to be imprinted. We want to wake still smoking with touch and sound and sight and taste. We want to wear our sensations like a burning dress. Some find a way. But the dress, she said, the dress is on fire. What are you saying, I shouted, What are you saying? I’m not wearing a dress at all, What’s burning is me. -Dahlia Ravikovitch In the morning, the woman woke, her mouth lined with a hundred tastes. Everything had a taste, she knew. Not just the taste that she could bend and put her lips to, but the taste that rushed up and paved her mouth whenever she touched something. Or someone. We have been so careful to keep our senses separate, separate as the five fingers on a hand. We are careful that we only feel the touch of another, and do not hear it, a faint flesh chime. We are careful that we only hear music, and do not see it, the notes beaded like water. We have been so careful. A single sensation—a touch, a taste—is almost too much for us already. This is why our senses cannot remember, this is why we feel something for a moment and then it is gone. We cannot hold it longer. This is why we wake in the morning with blank hands, blank eyes, blank mouths. But some find a way. While the woman slept, the man watched her. In sleep, her body’s boundaries forgot themselves and she spilled outside of her outline. She blurred like cream. He couldn’t tell where she ended and the white of the sheets began. He always watched her, always. That way he was sure that when he closed his eyes, he’d see nothing but her imprint. He leaned so close to her that he could see the pixels of her skin, and traced a finger down her jaw. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she were tasting something. The woman woke, her mouth lined with a hundred tastes. The pillow against her cheek was faint as mint. Her arm across her stomach tasted pale and dreamy as milk. The man beside her dragged a hand down her thigh, and the inside of her mouth flushed with plum. His blank hands wandered over her, and the memory of her skin came rushing back to them. His heart clasped and unclasped; his heartbeat rose in him like mercury and spilled, through his limbs, down to the tips of his fingers. Sensations are too much for the senses. They are too strong, they are too full, our senses cannot hold them. Sound existed first, and called forth our hearing, the taste of fruit made mouths necessary, the sun was so bright and lovely that it sparked our eyes out of thin air. We are here because the world was here first. His hands existed because her body called them into being. The hundred tastes. Everything she touched had a taste. Water was a flood of steel. When sunlight warmed her too much, she tasted honey. Her sheets were white and cool and peppermint. People tasted of a thousand things: coffee and sweat and cigarettes, rust and overripe fruit, dust and some secret sweetness. Earth and rain. For a long time, she remembered the taste of all of her lovers. A man’s taste began like a glow. Then it darkened like a storm, and grew heavier and heavier. It filled her mouth until her lips parted. Sometimes, the taste spilled out of her mouth and she spoke in tongues. She never kissed her lovers, of course. She touched them only with her hands. Everyone had a taste, she knew, not just the taste that she could bend and put her lips to, but the taste that rushed up and paved her mouth whenever she touched them. And this was enough. Too much. She was afraid to know what they really tasted like. Her mouth was already stunned with them, swimming with them. Then she met this man, and the inside of her mouth went blank. The first time she saw him she was leaning against the bar, sipping her drink and letting her mouth fill with accidental touches. It was late, and everyone tasted of smoke and whiskey and neon. He asked her to dance, his eyes lowered and his mouth sweet and untied. She nodded yes, because she liked the taste of strangers. He took her hand, and the inside of her mouth flushed with plum. He took her other hand, and her breathing grew long-stemmed and the taste of plum bathed everything inside her like a wash of lightning. When the song was over, she slipped her arm around his waist and took him home. Later, in the dark, the taste of plum climbed her blood like a fever and did not leave. At night, he touched her. And in the morning, she woke with the taste of him lining her mouth like silk. Touch leaves a light silt on the skin, a bare glimmer that settles over the body like dew. It is so light, light as manna, that most women can barely even feel it. But she could. Every night, he was inside her and the taste of plums filled her mouth and her skin was ringing with the taste of plums and the taste of plums made her pulse reel. And every morning, she woke with the taste of him echoing inside her mouth. He touched her like his hands could not get enough of her. His hands could not get enough of her. They forgot her too quickly. He wanted to be imprinted with her; he wanted her to replace his fingerprints. It wasn’t enough to renew the feel of her skin every time he touched her. He wanted his hands to remember her. What if he woke one morning, his hands blank and new again, and she was gone? What if he turned to touch her and she had disappeared? He was tired of waking in the morning with blank hands. She glided above him in the dark. His hands reached for her, fierce and a little desperate; the arch of his breath startled her when it came. The dark melted the edges of her skin into his, and she couldn’t tell where her body ended and his body began. She untangled herself from him gently, and rose from the froth of the sheets. The feel of her skin began to seep away from his hands. His heart went slack. He stood. She lifted her hair away from her neck (chocolate) and smiled at him. And his longing spilled out of his heart into his hands, and his hands reached for her and made a necklace for her neck and bracelets for her wrists and she wore her blood like a dress and blood painted her mouth a stunning red and she screamed but he could not hear it because the sea of her was crashing too loudly in his ears and she collapsed against the wall but he could not see it because his eyes were smeared with her brightness. Her vision walled with black. Bright spurs of color wheeled against the darkness. She collapsed against the wall, expecting the taste of rust and metal, of blood and dust, and instead a wild, savage sweetness split open like a supernova inside her mouth. It was as if the slow, spreading taste of plum had closed itself into a fist and crashed into her mouth; it was as if the taste of all his touches had clenched into a pure concentrate. For a moment her heart churned a flood of plum instead of blood. The taste was so intense that it spilled out of her eyes and mouth. He looked at her and moaned, mistaking it for tears and blood. He gathered her in his arms, and plum seeped dark beneath her skin like a bruise. He didn’t want to hurt her. How could he hurt this woman? He just wanted to remember. But he was so strong. Her flesh gave under his fingers as suddenly and sweetly as piano keys. She was hurt. It couldn’t be helped. Hands remember the explosion of fist against jaw. Hands remember crashing against a wall of skin. And when his fist met her flesh, it was like a thousand gentle touches had crushed themselves into a single blow, a pure, fierce concentrate of touch. He woke in the morning, and his hands weren’t blank anymore. She was their history now. She echoed across his palms, his fingers, his loosened fists. His hands wore her like a stain. Yet who would have thought the woman to have had so much blood in her? She woke in the morning, still smoking with touch. The taste of plum had paved her entire body, spread dark beneath her skin. She wore her bruises like a dress, something he had given her.