by Sparks In Shadow
She’s developed a tic. When a quarter second of memory flashes, her face jerks left or right, contorting.
She doesn’t think it’s involuntary. It doesn’t happen on the train or walking down streets. Loosed when she’s alone, she wonders if that quarter second’s amorphous woe springs from its perch undaunted by seductive distraction or the hurry from here to there.
Could notes, observed by some divine plan, cause reactions to discordant sounds pitched so high that neither she nor teenagers should hear? Or, she fears, has familiarity bred contempt she can only show herself when buttering bread or tying shoes?