Words always come to him with their distinctive flavors. “Accident” is gamey, like burning fat and stale sausages, bags o’ mystery, whose ingredients no one really knows. “School” has a pungency that lingers on the tongue, like licking old boots. And “mother” is buttery, warm and sweet, though with an acidic undertone, reminiscent of an apple pie gone sour. For years, Arthur assumed it must be the same for everyone, that other people also experienced similar associations, until he realized this was not the case. Since then he has been careful not to mention it to anyone. A quiet boy by nature,
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