Monday, 15 November 2010


She moves her mouth, but it is your voice which speaks. I want to peer over the counter, to see where you’re hiding, but, obviously, that would be strange. I ask a question, get her to speak again, and the same thing happens. She has your voice. I’ve heard of performers, of gurus who can supposedly face-shape-shift, but voice-shift?

I try not to stare, but I’m scanning her face for a hint, a clue that connects her to you. I know she’s not your sister, so a cousin maybe? But her voice, it is exactly the same as yours. I listen as she tells a story, but I don’t hear what she’s saying.

No, I’m thinking, this is what it would be like to talk to you if you didn’t do that thing you do when you speak to me. You talk to me, yes, but you’re so sure there must be a better audience for your attention, your eyes dart here and there, looking for someone with the social kudos you think you deserve.

I hope she doesn’t realise I’m not listening, I hate to be rude. I’m too busy imagining, wondering if you ever come in here. I wonder if you ever bother to speak to this woman who has your voice. And if you do, I wonder if you notice.

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