hearing the heimlich

The shade of blue of my face alarmed Sarah Perry like a screeching whistle to the crescendo-ing panic beating forte inside my head.

The percussion of my hacking and grunting to each rhythmic beat of the Heimlich she then administered sent the slice of cucumber singing from my mouth like a song. The scene resembled a strange dance between partners with the music built in to the movements.

My day was a pedaled, dissonant chord, with too many notes and none of them in harmony. By the time I got the chance to eat, my stomach had been roaring to each chant of my dissident watch. The bites trumpeted the satisfaction of my wailing tummy.

The sandwich went too quickly, the bites, like tiny staccato notes screaming down my throat, until one of them, containing a whole note--that fated cucumber slice, got stuck. Perhaps it got tangled in the treble clefs of sprouts, or the measure lines of tomatoes, but whatever the case, something was terribly off key--the perfect melody of my meal concluded with the jarring measures of a tuneless and out of practiced instrument--Sarah's Heimlich.