Suppled Senses / by Lily Greenberg

Head tossed atop the passenger seat, I was drifting in the fog between slumber and guard when my wires crossed. Bursting through the dam, musical tang poured from my aural cavities and expanded across my vision. Fluid fingers along the guitar elongated and liquefied and, then paused. Those weeping fingertips hovered over my palate and, one by one, dropped sweet notes onto my tongue. Melody in my ears, eyes, mouth, chest, drowning in music, overcome by orchestra. All too soon, I stirred and order returned to my senses. The music shrank, now trapped in my ears. Frantic, I searched the glove compartment for an odor I could hold in my hands, a scenic postcard that sounded like rain, but all I found was a crumpled note from a professor, whose office building reeked of untold stories and mortality.