Hair. Her memories are long green hair. In the morning she winds and binds them. They’re heavy, dragging her head down over the desk where she sits, typing words. I drifts from sentence to sentence, untethered to her screen-scanning face. I refer to your email dated. I attach the form for your. I look forward to your early.
Evenings, alone in her high-rise cubicle, she releases her memories. They ripple down the façade, cover the lower windows with fragrant green silk.
I’ll play you something, he says. His fingers tap and fidget, return to her skin. A golden voice spirals the room. Uncoils tiny hairs inside her ears.
What is it? she asks.
Vocalise. Rachmaninov. A song without words. There’s only one vowel. Whatever the singer chooses. Which vowel would you choose?
She tries them out.
Ah. Maybe oh.
Pick one, and stick to it, he says. I’ll do it too.
Oh. Oh. Soft blind sounds, bumping into each other.
One night she comes early, on the off chance. A golden voice sifts through the bricks.
What is it? someone asks.
Vocalise. Rachmaninov. A song without words. There’s only one vowel. Whatever the singer chooses. Which vowel would you choose?
Ah. Maybe oh.
Pick one, and stick to it. I’ll do it too.
Only the tiny hairs in her ears hear her oh.
She keeps its ghost in the green silk. Keeps – that’s not quite right. It’s never quite the same ghost, quite the same silk.
She rewinds the golden voice, catching different inflections.
Which vowel would you choose?
Ee. Maybe oo.
During the day, she hears the vowels in her long green braid. Trying to reach her I, coax it back to life, they call:
Rapunzel, ...
Evenings, alone in her high-rise cubicle, she releases her memories. They ripple down the façade, cover the lower windows with fragrant green silk.
I’ll play you something, he says. His fingers tap and fidget, return to her skin. A golden voice spirals the room. Uncoils tiny hairs inside her ears.
What is it? she asks.
Vocalise. Rachmaninov. A song without words. There’s only one vowel. Whatever the singer chooses. Which vowel would you choose?
She tries them out.
Ah. Maybe oh.
Pick one, and stick to it, he says. I’ll do it too.
Oh. Oh. Soft blind sounds, bumping into each other.
One night she comes early, on the off chance. A golden voice sifts through the bricks.
What is it? someone asks.
Vocalise. Rachmaninov. A song without words. There’s only one vowel. Whatever the singer chooses. Which vowel would you choose?
Ah. Maybe oh.
Pick one, and stick to it. I’ll do it too.
Only the tiny hairs in her ears hear her oh.
She keeps its ghost in the green silk. Keeps – that’s not quite right. It’s never quite the same ghost, quite the same silk.
She rewinds the golden voice, catching different inflections.
Which vowel would you choose?
Ee. Maybe oo.
During the day, she hears the vowels in her long green braid. Trying to reach her I, coax it back to life, they call:
Rapunzel, ...
Faye Brinsmead's flash fiction appears in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, MoonPark Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Emerge Literary Journal, (mac)ro(mic), and others. She won first prize in the Spring 2020 Reflex Fiction competition, judged by Kathy Fish. She lives in Australia and tweets @ContesdeFaye.