A Hint of Indigo on the Tongue

Leo’s jaw ached. Not from grinding his teeth, not exactly, but from the sheer effort of holding his face still, of keeping that bland, approachable mask in place. The office was a meat grinder this week. Fluorescent lights buzzed a low, sickly hum above, a constant pressure behind his eyes. Keyboards clattered like a thousand tiny nervous spiders. Someone, three cubicles over, was laughing too loud, a braying sound that scraped against the inside of Leo’s skull. His monitor, a giant twenty-seven-inch canvas of lines and angles, showed the skeleton of a new high-rise, all steel and glass, yet it offered no sanctuary. He felt his hands begin to clam up, the tips of his fingers getting that prickling, too-sensitive feeling. His breath, shallow. He could feel the edge of a full-blown internal meltdown coming on, a tightening coil in his gut, the kind that made him want to rip out his own hair.

He closed his eyes, just for a second. The world behind his eyelids was a frantic, swirling mess of red and orange afterimages from the screens, the bright, aggressive colors of stress. He squeezed them tighter, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, trying to blot out the riot. Breathe, he told himself, but the air felt thin, stale. Panic was a cold sweat now, tracing a line down his spine, settling in the small of his back. He felt trapped, pinned beneath the weight of expectations, the demands, the sheer unrelenting *noise* of it all.

Then, a memory, or maybe a desperate hallucination. A few months back, a particularly brutal client meeting. He’d been cornered, pelted with unreasonable demands, his carefully constructed proposal shredded before his eyes. His vision had narrowed, his ears had roared, and he’d stared at a small, framed photo on the client’s desk. It was of a fishing boat, tiny against a vast, impossibly deep blue ocean under an equally vast, cloudless blue sky. He remembered the exact shade: a deep, profound indigo, almost black at the edges, but with a vibrant, living core.

In that moment, something shifted. He wasn't seeing it anymore. He was *tasting* it. Not like a blueberry, no, nothing sweet or fruity. It was a cold taste, like holding a smooth, perfectly rounded river stone in his mouth, clean and mineral-rich. It was the taste of high-altitude air, thin and pure, carrying the barest hint of ozone after a distant storm. It was the taste of silence, distilled and concentrated, a vast, cool expanse. His tongue felt coated in it, a subtle, almost imperceptible film that spread through his mouth, down his throat. The noise didn't disappear, but it dulled. The panic receded, pulling back like a tide, leaving behind a clear, smooth beach.

He’d started trying it. Consciously. When his wife would launch into one of her tirades about the kids’ latest antics, her voice sharp, rising, he’d find a patch of blue: the faded denim of her jeans, the subtle pattern on a forgotten teacup, the very corner of the sky outside the window. He’d let his eyes soften, let them drink in that specific hue, and then, a faint, almost imperceptible chill would settle on his tongue. The metallic tang, the silent mineral wash. It didn’t make her stop yelling, but it put a layer between him and the sound, a thin, protective membrane.

He used it in traffic, stuck in a gridlock of blaring horns and exhaust fumes, the hot fury of other drivers pressing in. He’d find the blue of a distant billboard, the uniform of a crossing guard, or even the dull blue light of the car’s digital clock. He’d just focus, let that cool, clean sensation spread. The anger would still be there, a hum in the periphery, but it wouldn't own him. It was like a little internal switch, a quiet recalibration, pulling him back from the brink of whatever anxiety or irritation threatened to swallow him whole.

It wasn’t a cure, not for anything. It wasn't some mystical healing power. Just a trick. A sensory redirection. When everything got too loud, too bright, too much, he’d just find the blue. Any blue. He didn't think about *why* it worked, only that it did. A whisper of clean, cold air on his tongue, a deep, silent well of calm in the midst of chaos. It was his anchor, his quiet rebellion against the relentless onslaught of modern life.

Right now, in this office, with the deadline looming, the braying laughter still echoing, he needed it. He couldn't find a blue object nearby that felt potent enough. So, he just closed his eyes again, not squeezing this time, but letting the lids rest gently. He pulled up the image from the client’s desk, the vast, deep indigo ocean, the perfect, unblemished sky. He held it in his mind, let it expand, fill his inner vision.

The taste arrived, immediate and profound. The subtle grit of granite, the expansive chill of open water, the faint metallic echo of deep space. It was the taste of pure, unburdened existence, a flavor that drowned out the artificial hum of the lights, the incessant clatter of keyboards. He could feel his shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of his neck. His breath deepened, steadying. The world outside him was still a frenzy, but the world inside, the one that mattered, was still.

He opened his eyes. The screen was still there, the intricate lines of the building awaiting his attention. The noise was still there. But the urgency, the sharp, clawing fear, had dulled to a manageable drone. He picked up his pen, the cheap plastic cool against his fingers. He dipped his head, focused on the first line of the schematic. The faint, clean mineral taste of indigo lingered, a quiet promise, on his tongue.