I breathed in the sound of the words. The rich overture wound through my senses like they were merely different octaves, not different sensory dimensions. I didn't hear the words, I became the words, and the emotion that was them.
With her lilting voice, the reader paused, and looked straight at me. She couldn't see me, but with I drinking in the words, a vacuum was forming for the rest of her audience. Her eyes fluttered, then resumed scanning the page. The story was a close match, perfect in all its ways, to her style, and my emotions were captive to it. My lungs shuddered, as they do when I'm cold instead of my teeth, and my shoulders.
The rest of the audience didn't notice the pause, on par with the tone of the story, but neither did they feel the cold lack of emotions in her voice, as I filled myself on them and left none to the others.
This was how I read, when alone, to myself, absorbing the story, and even my imagination agreed with her tone, as particular as it was. Here, she was duplicating it, and I could not help but take it all in.
Her voice stayed with me for days, weeks, and it haunted my dreams. I woke in the morning with the rhythm of her reading caught in my head like a catchy lyric. I stirred in my sleep when she permeated the threshold of my subconscious.