Spoken In Sunrise Fronds

20260306

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

His is the only voice I’ve ever seen which dances. Most people’s… the motion is somewhere between a drip and bubbling; like they’re blowing into goo. Some voices outright ooze. Others spray you - not necessarily unpleasantly.
Whereas his… his voice forms delicate fronds which twine around one another in intricate, flowing patterns. Sometimes I get so lost watching the shapes form that I forget to actually listen to what he’s saying. He’s good about it. But I still feel bad. And embarrassed.
And the colour! It’s not that his voice has more colours than most, but it’s a lovely pinky-orange. Cheerful without being obnoxious. Not something I’d paint my bedroom in, but I think it’d work well in an exercise room. Just seeing it gives me energy.
Back when we first met, I was so taken aback by the beauty of his “hello” that without thinking I asked if he was a dancer. Then remembered I was talking about sound and went no, wait, I meant singer.
Turns out he wasn’t either. But he looked flattered, so at least I didn’t feel a complete fool.
Partly to try and steer the conversation towards normal, and mostly because I’d never wanted to get to know someone more in my entire life, I asked what he did do, and his voice made describing a trainstation kiosk into spellbinding art, like stained glass windows had learned how to do ballet.
Wait, the local station? I asked, as if any other option made any sense. Thankfully he just said yes, he’d inherited it from his uncle.
I couldn’t believe I might’ve walked past hundreds of times and never thought to interact with him. Which, I mean, fair enough, but - the number of conversations we could’ve had by now! Yet here we were, meeting for the first time at my neighbour’s party.
I almost hadn’t gone. Intimidated by the number of voices I could hear through the thin wall. But the wall also let in some amazing smells, and I was too tired to cook, so thought I’d pop in long enough to eat and say hello to my neighbour and then…
And then I met him.
Secretly I wondered if the universe had insisted that we meet. If stars had been pushed into alignment, making up for my failing to pick up cosmic hints.
We talked for hours - well, it was mostly me watching him talk and striving to also listen. And Monday morning I had my head up in the station.
There he was, between the two platforms, halfway down. On one side was the indoor seating area, on the other the loos. I must’ve passed twice a day for years and never seen him.
But then, I didn’t read newspapers. And I drank my coffee at home with breakfast. And I always walked straight to the far end, where I was most likely to get a seat. So it wasn’t surprising I’d glossed over his existence. But it was tragic.
Turns out he sold alright coffee. And delicious pastries - he told me, with great pride, that his sister owned a bakery and made these fresh.
I’d already had cereal and coffee. Three pastries and two more cups of coffee was straight-up gutsy. And it wasn’t like he was showing any hesitation to chat. Of course he had to keep pausing to serve customers - other customers. I was just a customer.
I didn’t mind the interruptions. I got to admire his voice painting the chill air with sunrise fronds as he said hello, good morning, thank you, sometimes a bit more for people I assumed were regulars.
But then, that done, he always turned back and resumed chatting with me.
Only once my train was actually in sight did I say goodbye and hurry to the far end of the platform.
I didn’t get a seat. I didn’t care. I stared unseeing out the window and wondered if it’d be creepy to stop and talk to him again on my way home.
Probably. And I really shouldn’t spend more money.
So I limited myself to watching for him as I walked past, buried amongst the commuter tide - and we made eye contact, and I smiled and waved, and he waved back. I carried the warmth of that exchange all the way home.
After that I skipped my breakfast coffee, and got out the door a little earlier, and usually managed to limit myself to one pastry. Particularly since, when I stopped to talk to him at the end of the day, he often insisted I take at least one home. For free. They won’t be as good tomorrow, he’d say, and I’d agree it’d be a terrible waste.
Sometimes we’d chat for so long, he’d close up - six sharp, because after that anyone would just walk past him and head for one of the proper eateries nearby. I’d help him carry stuff to his van, and he’d give me a lift partway home. To the point where our routes converged. Going any further would be a bother, and it got me close enough to be a nice walk. Much better than taking the bus during rush hour.
Today had been horrible. Every part of it. Delays on the way in. Project going sideways. Coworker bailing for what might have been a genuine family emergency.
I got into the station at quarter to seven - and there he was. Sitting at his kiosk. Lights off, but not shuttered up. He leapt to his feet and waved and his hello formed a swirling pink cloud which washed my misery away.
He’d been worried, he said, the words enfolding me. Intangible, yet so warm. He was glad I was alright. Did I want a lift home?
Yes! I said. But only if he let me buy him dinner - did he like fish and chips?
His agreement coiled around me in a comforting lace scarf as we walked to the door, and my hand slipped into his.

Prompt was “Describe a character’s voice using colors and textures rather than sound.”