Just Breathe by Tamara Mataya Page A

bite of pasta.
    “Is it typically songs you like or not so much?”
    “You know, I’ve never thought about it. But I guess it’s not so much, because whenever a song I like comes on, it feels special, like a small victory. It must happen less often. What about you, any other superpowers?”
    “I can always find the end on the roll of tape.”
    “That one’s useful, it shouldn’t count.”
    We dig into our dinner, which we both agree is delicious.
    “So,” Dominic says. “You mentioned a brother. Any other siblings?”
    I swallow. “Nope, just him. What about you?”
    “Only child I’m afraid.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “Yup. Terribly spoiled.”
    “A tyrant’s gotta do what a tyrant’s gotta do,” I tease.
    “I’d have liked to have had a brother or sister though. Do you and your brother get along?”
    “We do now, but we fought like fiends when we were younger. He’s seven years older than I am, so I can see why I’d get on his nerves. I just thought he was so cool and followed him around like a second shadow until I was about six.”
    “Aww.”
    “It sounds cuter than it was. It’s more like a tiny stalker who tattles on you to your parents.”
    “You were a tattler?”
    “Only when he was mean to me.”
    “I think it’s cute. Does he have Synaesthesia as well?”
    “No, it’s just me.” I sip my wine. “I think my Grandfather on Dad’s side had it as well though, but only tactile—sound definitely didn’t affect him like it does me. He hated silky textures—the feeling made him uneasy. I chased him around the yard with a kitten once, thinking he was just playing along with me, feigning fear at its kitteny texture. He wasn’t.”
    “What’s the tactile aspect of it like?”
    “It’s a bit more complicated than the sound, for sure. Sometimes I physically feel a touch to my body when I hear a sound, on my back, or the back of my knee. A few noises feel like they crawl around in my chest. It’s uncomfortable and creeps me out. I’ve bought some really ugly clothes just because the texture pleased me. We’re talking bad fitting, bad coloured, who-shot-the-couch patterns. I don’t get visuals or anything else from textures. Mostly, it’s more like an emotion to the point of pleasure or discomfort.”
    “Pain?”
    “I wouldn’t say pain, but it can get to extreme discomfort. It’s not exactly physical, though it resembles it. It’s more that it makes me feel uneasy, like an instinctual reaction to the point where it overwhelms me and I have to get away from the sound.”
    “That sounds awful.” Dominic’s expression is somber.
    “It can be. But there’s the flip side—silky textures or music that I like make me feel content, safe, and sort of like a happy cat.”
    “At least there’s an upside.”
    “Yes. My friend Marie got me...” I stop. I was about to tell him about my satin sheets, but um, I don’t think that’s exactly first date material. I think furiously for a way to end that sentence without mentioning bedding. Nothing comes to mind. I’ve already finished eating, or I’d take a bite of food to stall for time.
    “What did she get you?” Dominic finishes his spaghetti. I sip my wine and wish for a distraction. Nothing. Damn it.
    “Nothing, it’s not important. I’d rather hear more about where we’re going next.” When in doubt, misdirect.
    He still looks curious, but doesn’t push it. “Well, we’re so close to the surprise, it would be pointless to have made it this close just to tell you now.”
    “Guess I can hang in there.” I lower my head sadly. “You know, even though you’re torturing me with the wait.”
    “Nice try. I’m on to your tricks, you’ll just have to wait.” He says it happily, and it strikes me that he’s really looking forward to this surprise. It must be good. “So is it your condition that made you decide to become a librarian?”
    “Partly. But mostly, I’ve just always loved reading. I isolated myself quite a bit,