“Are yousureyou’re not from the south?” I asked. “Cheese on your pie?”
“My grandfatheron my mother’s side was from Alabama, I think.” He cocked his head. “Anyway, healways ate his apple pie like that, and I guess I wanted to be like him.”
“Mom and dad?”
“Dad splitshortly after I was born. It was just me and my mom when I was growing up. Shedied three years ago. Lung cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. Itwas rough, but at least she’s not in pain anymore.”
June returnedwith our food, and I noticed Train’s expression turn serious. He shifted in hisseat and his fists clenched.
“Everything lookokay?” June asked.
Train wassilent, his eyes locked onto my plate.
“Yes, thank youvery much,” I said in perfect English to a confused looking June, who left usalone once again. “Are you alright?” I asked Train.
“You got asalad,” he said as if I’d ordered a bowl of baby snakes. “A big, giganticsalad.”
“I did,” Iconfirmed, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“I told you I’vehad trouble making friends in the past.”
“You said youhad some social issues.”
Train nodded. “Ihave a condition called Misophonia.”
“What is that?”
“It’s aneurological condition that makes me hypersensitive to certain sounds. In mycase, a lot of sounds,” he said, his eyes still locked on my salad. “And thosesounds can trigger anything from mild anxiety to a full-blown panic attack.”
“Is that whatyou meant when you said there was a flip side to the gift of having a greatmusical ear?”
Train nodded.“The same ears and brain that hear and interpret music are also wide open toreceiving troublesome sounds. And when those sounds get in, my anxiety goesup.”
“And what arethose troublesome sounds?”
“Gum popping,pens clicking, dripping water.” He glanced up at me. “I could give you a listas long as my arm.”
“Don’t thosekinds of sounds annoy everyone?”
“Yes, and I’dgive anything for those sounds to be an annoyance, but they’re far moreintrusive than you might think for people like me.”
I cocked my head.“How so?”
“Have you everhad a song change your mood?”
“Of course,” Isaid.
“You didn’tconsciously allow the song to affect your emotions and yet it did. Now imagine,instead of a song, it’s the sound of the person across the table from youchewing. And instead of making you feel happy and relaxed, the sound instantlyenrages you. And as much as you may love that person, and don’t want them tostarve to death, you desperately want to dive across the table to prevent themfrom taking another bite.”
“Chewing?” sheasked.
“It’s my mostsevere trigger.”
I looked down atmy salad. “Uh-oh.”
