The Voice

She was sat there, reading her book when she heard it. It was low, with a timbre that spoke to her on some level deeper than aurally. There was a laconic speed to it, like it was drifting out of its owner's mouth casually and with swagger, masculine swagger which spoke of sexiness and long mornings in white sheets in bright tastefully decorated rooms. It was the Mick Jagger of voices, exuding a confidence, a knowingness that was making her tingle at the prospect of exploration and fulfillment with the finding out.

The voice had aroused more than just her interest.

Irene was not prone to such flights of fancy. She had come into town for a new bread board and to have a few moments to herself. When she was given the chance, she liked to sit in a sophisticated coffee shop, treat herself to a cappuccino and cake and read her book, sat in a little world of her own making, letting her imagination take her off somewhere strange for a moment or two. Sometimes, she'd watch people coming and going and ruminate on their lives, but mostly, she liked the feeling of the image she had created of herself: educated, self-possessed woman, confidently indulging in the things that she knew would bring her pleasure and calm.

So when The Voice, as it would ever more be known to her when she thought of it, strode boldly into her consciousness, she let it do what it would with her. She forgot her book, she picked up her cappuccino and she sipped it with a delicacy, a savouring that matched her inner desire.

It really was quite remarkable, the way it made her feel. She had no idea what had been said.

And now, having reached the end of her time of repose, she was faced with a dilemma: should she look or should The Voice's owner remain a mystery?

Tall, dark, smouldering, sexy was her vision, as The Voice suggested but what if The Voice was all he had? She moved her head towards it but realised she couldn't bear the disappointment! She gathered her things and walked straight out.

The Voice remained intact.

***

366 words

I love voices. The right pitch, coupled with an accent, and a delivery that speaks to you on some other level. I am the same about singers. If their voices grate at all, then I find it difficult to rave about their music regardless of melody or orchestration. It takes something away from it.

And so, I took that idea of finding a voice enormously appealing, beguiling and resonating with you deep inside where it connects to an innate knowledge of what you are attracted to and making a story from it.

Should Irene have looked?

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