A Mouthful of Midnight

Leo watched the late afternoon sun bleed out of the sky, dragging long shadows across the worn floorboards of his apartment. He hadn't bothered to turn on a light, just sat there, slumped on the beat-up armchair, a lukewarm cup of coffee gone cold beside him. The quiet was a living thing, thick and heavy, pressing in from every corner. It had been like this for weeks. Every day a slow fade, a dull ache behind his eyes.

He picked up the coffee, took a hesitant sip. It was awful, bitter and stale, like ash. He put it down, watched the dust motes dance in the last sliver of light. He thought about his father, then, a fleeting image of the old man’s face, etched with worry, worn around the eyes like a favorite book. That last phone call. The way the light caught the dust in the air, the way it just hung there, suspended, felt exactly like that conversation – everything waiting, nothing moving forward, just that heavy, impossible stillness.

And then it hit him. Not a memory, not a feeling, but a taste. Right there, on his tongue. It wasn't coffee. It wasn't the lingering stale taste of his own breath. It was… blue. Not a concept, not an idea, but a palpable, physical sensation. It started as a faint chill, like a coin pulled from a winter coat pocket, pressed flat against his taste buds. Metallic, yes, but not like iron. More like the glint off a distant, frozen lake.

He drew a breath, held it. The taste intensified, spreading across his mouth, coating his teeth. It wasn't bitter, not exactly. It was vast. Like the bottom of the ocean, or the empty space between stars. A profound, aching coldness, not sharp, but deep, numbing. It settled in the back of his throat, a thick, almost viscous presence, like trying to swallow a mouthful of midnight. He felt it in his sinuses, too, a pressure building behind his eyes, a strange, hollow ache that wasn’t pain, just… blue.

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath his ear. He tried to swallow it away, but it clung, a stubborn film. It had the weight of sorrow, the quiet dignity of things unsaid. He could almost feel the texture – like a polished stone, smooth and cold, yet also faintly grainy, like ancient dust. He blinked, hard. The room hadn't changed, the shadows still stretched long and indifferent. But everything felt sharper, somehow, more defined, because of this overwhelming, unexpected flavor.

His hand went to his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips. He was breathing a little fast, the air in his lungs feeling thin, not enough. Was this what they called going mad? A color on his tongue? But it felt so real, so undeniable. More real than the lukewarm coffee, more real than the silence, even. It was the color of the sky just before dawn, when everything is still and waiting, and the world holds its breath, heavy with unspoken things. It was the color of the deepest part of his father's eyes when he thought no one was looking, when the weight of the world pressed down.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the taste. It was all-consuming. It muted every other sense, or rather, it filtered them through its own peculiar tint. The scent of old wood, the faint traffic hum from outside – they were now blue, too, somehow. Part of the same deep, encompassing hue. He could feel it in his teeth, a dull thrumming ache, like a cavity forming in the very essence of himself. It wasn't pleasant. It wasn't something he wanted to keep. But he couldn't shake it.

He opened his eyes, let them drift to the window. The last bit of light had vanished completely, swallowed by the creeping dusk. The world outside was a deep, bruised purple, on its way to black. But in his mouth, the blue persisted. A cold, expansive flavor that said nothing and everything all at once. He stood up, slowly, his legs stiff. Walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The city lights began to prickle into existence, distant and indifferent. He wondered if everyone tasted this, sometimes. This crushing, magnificent blue. He wondered what he was supposed to do with it now that it was there, solid and undeniable, in his mouth. He just stood there, tasting the night.