Synthesis

a cacophony of color

{1}

LANE

WHEN I wake up, I know it's going to be an okay day. I know this because my head isn't pounding in a way that makes the world change colors. Today, the only sound that I hear is my breathing coming out in short, orange pants. This is all I know. I pull on some black jeans and a white t-shirt before I head to the bathroom of my apartment. I shave, brush my teeth, and style my hair. Then I drop my razor. A sharp, resounding green ping echoes in the small area. I pick it up, liking the way it sounds and I test it against the ceramic of the counter. The sound repeats. I do it again in a constant motion, adding in sounds. My left hand taps with three fingers as I double up the taps with the razor. Green and blue collide.

This is the type of art only my mind can create.

Only I will be able to see the collision of sound and color. This is another perspective I trick my mind into seeing as a good thing. I stop drumming and grab my keys.

Today is a good day, a rarity. I'll enjoy my breakfast out; who knows when I'll get the next chance. I shrug on a black jacket and I lock the doors and pat my pockets- keys, wallet, phone. Then I walk out the hall, pass the elevator, and take the eight flights of stair that will lead me to the lobby. I'm in the cold New York air six minutes later.

Twelve minutes pass and I'm almost to the right block, trying to ignore the sounds and colors around me. The crowd of people walking to and from work and breakfast pushes against on all sides. There are at least twenty people talking loudly on their phones. Colors flash all around me. I start to count to keep myself calm.

I keep walking. Six Mississippi- three cars honk and someone calls for a taxi. I pick up my pace, pushing through people like a criminal. Eleven Mississippi.

"Hey! Watch it!" I hear from my left as I begin to jog. The sidewalk ahead of me thins out. I sprint. Nineteen Mississippi. I keep going. The Café is around the corner. Twenty-Two Mississippi. I open the door. It's early still, only six in the morning, but this city never sleeps.

There are eleven people total in the café, including the three baristas. I am panting, out of breath, as I sit in the far booth on the right. My heart is hammering in my chest from running, yes, but also because of the near panic attack. My hands are shaking so I fold them into fists on my lap. It's quiet except for the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar playing softly over the speakers. I take a few deep breaths, running my hands through my short brown hair.

I try to focus on the numbers. 3 baristas. 11 people, now 12.

Yellow pulses around me. I stand, walking over to the counter to order, behind a short line of people. The lady in front of me taps on her phone, each letter she types making a purple ping. I look at the menu, even though I already have my order in mind. One by one the people place their orders, the lady in front of me still tapping away in purple. She's next and the barista calls her twice before the lady's head snaps up. "Excuse me, miss? Excuse me" she says kindly, red pulsing around her.

"Right. I'll have a caramel macchiato with a shot of espresso, non-fat milk with extra foam." The barista takes the order expertly. The sound of the lady's purple voice paints an ugly picture of indigo annoyance in front of me. It is the very sense of overbearing. She should be happy that she doesn't know what her voice looks like- I'm sure hearing it is enough. I go back to reading the board. After giving the Barista her name, the lady pays, steps out of line, and goes back to her phone. I'm next. I lock eyes with the barista- she blushes and glances down. "What can I do for you?" The red of her voice matches her rosy cheeks. She's gorgeous. Brunette. Pretty eyes. I feel my heart stop for a minute.