I breathed in the sound of the words. The rich overture wound through my senses like they were merely different octaves, not different sensory dimensions. I didn't hear the words, I became the words, and the emotion that was them.
With her lilting voice, the
reader paused, and looked straight at me. She couldn't see me, but with I
drinking in the words, a vacuum was forming for the rest of her
audience. Her eyes fluttered, then resumed scanning the page. The story
was a close match, perfect in all its ways, to her style, and my
emotions were captive to it. My lungs shuddered, as they do when I'm
cold instead of my teeth, and my shoulders.
The rest of
the audience didn't notice the pause, on par with the tone of the
story, but neither did they feel the cold lack of emotions in her voice,
as I filled myself on them and left none to the others.
was how I read, when alone, to myself, absorbing the story, and even my
imagination agreed with her tone, as particular as it was. Here, she
was duplicating it, and I could not help but take it all in.
voice stayed with me for days, weeks, and it haunted my dreams. I woke
in the morning with the rhythm of her reading caught in my head like a
catchy lyric. I stirred in my sleep when she permeated the threshold of