short fiction · 2026-10-27

The Color of Tuesday

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

Tuesday tastes like copper and burnt sugar. The number 7 is a sharp blue, the kind that cuts glass, while 3 is soft and yellow as butter. She learned this before she learned to read — the calendar on the kitchen wall humming in F-sharp, her mother's voice a rough wool texture against the smooth silk of her father's.

Now, at thirty, she still cannot explain why the smell of rain on hot asphalt makes her fingers itch with the memory of piano scales, or why the word "Wednesday" sits heavy and brown in her mouth like a stone. Her therapist calls it cross-wiring. Her lover calls it magic. She calls it Tuesday, and Tuesday calls her back in frequencies no one else can hear.