SHOWCASE
Euphony JADE AIMERS I watched her lips while she spoke. “Are you up to much today?” They were deep pink - flushed and sweet. I thought the dead skin on her bottom lip would taste like sugar, or honey. I watched her lips because of the way she formed her words. I like the sweet spot- the millisecond-where I see her intention, before her voice follows. I sometimes imagine that one day, she’ll speak to me, and a new voice will come out. One I’ve never heard before... I know it’s not fair to put that dream on her, but the voice gets old.
The voice is my voice. The same voice as everyone: packaged up differently, in different people, but the same, nonetheless. Androgynous. Warm. Boring. “Not much. Just grabbing a coffee then studying.” I smiled. “Usual.” “I’d rather be studying than making coffee.” She turned her back to me to start making the latte, and asked: “You take two sugars, right?” Except it could have been anyone asking. The person behind me. The ginger news reporter that came on the BBC every night at 6. Without her face, the voice bounced off the walls and echoed through my memories. “Brown.” She turned back around, grabbed two sachets, and smiled. It seemed like that was the default under any of her tiredness or frustration: her dark eyebrows lifted, everything seemed to open up. Around us, in The Little Cafe, our voice clashed as people chatted at tables and in the queue. It was a small place, right on the main road, but I liked the kaleidoscope of vocabulary that fluttered throughout. Different languages, different registers. The melting pot of academics, students, and regulars felt like change. 16
