Synesthate

By Jaza Aqil

And they are fighting again. They are such a dysfunctional couple. I really don’t know what he sees in her.  How can he bear the stench of rotten eggs around her?  And that voice of hers, so loud, so in-your-face; it’s like having someone’s feet, fresh out of overused Nikes, shoved up your nose. But no, he can’t smell her voice. He only sees how attractive she is. What with her oh so skinny legs and perfect nails and velvety hair...velvety my foot! More like a burnt chicken’s feathers. Oh my God what is she wearing? Those jeans are so tight it’s like she has dyed her legs blue. Okay. No. Must stop thinking about it. And him. Him. I can hear his voice in meek self defense. Even though I think it’s pathetic the way he puts up with her, right now his voice sounds so warm. It’s the tantalizing smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins, with a hint of cinnamon. No. NO. Focus, Anna focus. Okay, so what problem are we on? 23. 23 is such a soothing number; a soft, pale blue; quiet, tranquil …like a lullaby. Wait. Hold on. What? What is Mr. Brown doing? That’s not the answer. I can hear the quotient whimpering for help. Okay, this needs to be fixed. Yes. There we go. All better now. Wipe that smirk off your face Anna; Mr. Brown probably did this on purpose just to catch your attention. Look, he’s smiling now. If he weren’t my favorite teacher, I would probably hate him for these torturous moments. He knows I can’t bear the heart wrenching cry of an incorrectly solved problem. Oh great. I can see them again. They’re making up now. Rotten eggs and blueberry muffins do not go well together. It will only result in ugly, nasty vomit. ANNA. Yes, sorry, back to numbers. Numbers are simple, much simpler than people. They are stable. Dependable. Be it the orange zero, or the green eight. The soft yellow of tens and twenties can soothe me on any day. Unlike numbers, people are just so complicated. Their words, their actions contradict; they cannot be defined in solid, primary colors. No. They exist in shades – there is never a definitive line separating the good, the bad, the right, the wrong in them. It’s always so hazy, so complicated. Numbers on the contrary are soothing, pleasant to the senses, appealing to the eyes, the nose, the ears. And that’s why I can always turn to them. Every Math problem is my very own symphony; a perfect blend of all that is harmonious and effortless in this world. I tried to explain this to that dense therapist the other day and she didn’t get it. Twittered something about how I must be an artist since I connect with colors so well. A double degree from Yale, you would think she would be more insightful than that…but no, apparently I’m the one with my brain messed up. I told her art is just as confusing as people. The one art class I ever took perplexed me with its shades and lines and textures and sketches. Yellow is never just yellow to an artist. (Or so the teacher had said) No; there is marigold and dandelion and lemon yellow. There is yellow at dawn, yellow at dusk, yellow at noon. Yellow used to be my color for him. It was the warmth and protection he brought in to my life. Till he met her, that is. Since then I can’t identify what shade of yellow he is. Numbers don’t betray like that, they don’t abandon me. Eight will always remain green and zero, orange. But apparently, according to the therapist I’ve got it all wrong. Art is full of colors, not math. Apparently, my senses are all jumbled up. The way I see things is incorrect. Something to do with my brain being messed up she said. What did she call me? Yes, a synesthate. Yes.That. The word has such a pungent sound to it. Just because she has a medical term for the way I perceive the world, doesn’t make it any less natural.