The Synaesthesia

It's not yet winter. A few of the birds are still here, and their songs send thin green shockwaves through the sky. As I enter the convenience store, the little bell suspended from the door showers me with harmless pink sparks. Mrs. Nguyen is happy to see me. I ask her for the usual: a large light and sweet in a to-go cup. The coffee is drinkable, as always, but it tastes a lot bluer than usual. I let Mrs. Nguyen know that the milk she's using is about to go off. Have you heard, she says, They're tearing down the nice old houses across the street to build condominiums. Her voice is tinged with orange. She continues, Sometimes it seems like this city gets less and less colourful every year. I shake my head, You're right, but we'll get by somehow. People can adapt to anything.