0
Saturday Flash Fiction #2 - Denying Hope
She smelled of menthol cigarettes and jasmine. That's what he distinctively remembers about her. Even if he were to go blind or deaf or blind and deaf, he could pick her out of a crowd, just by her scent alone. Maybe she was here, in a crowded New York street or maybe his mind is playing tricks on him; forcing him to remember her when it took him five years to forget her.
He hardly thought of her anymore, not since she said goodbye. After all, goodbyes only work when one leaves. Yet today, like a precise catalog of goodbyes, her scent prominently catches him unawares. It wasn't like he was chasing after her memory only to shun it in the end. IT was the exact opposite. The only reason he's fighting it is because he requires verifiable empirical evidence that she is truly here.
After arguing with himself, he decides that the most logical thing to do is to go indagate. He was the only one who can explain and determine the answers to the mystery of menthol cigarettes and tiny white flowers; the mystery of the woman and her puissant scent.
He cranes his neck above the crowd and inhales the air, sifting through different smells - the cinnamon from the freshly baked bun a young girl was holding, the sharp tang of an orange being peeled, the harsh musk of an older man rushing through - catching minute details of nicotine and jasmine. Finally, catching a direction, he was on his way. This time, he didn't even try to hide the slight hop and urgency in his step.
He hardly thought of her anymore, not since she said goodbye. After all, goodbyes only work when one leaves. Yet today, like a precise catalog of goodbyes, her scent prominently catches him unawares. It wasn't like he was chasing after her memory only to shun it in the end. IT was the exact opposite. The only reason he's fighting it is because he requires verifiable empirical evidence that she is truly here.
After arguing with himself, he decides that the most logical thing to do is to go indagate. He was the only one who can explain and determine the answers to the mystery of menthol cigarettes and tiny white flowers; the mystery of the woman and her puissant scent.
He cranes his neck above the crowd and inhales the air, sifting through different smells - the cinnamon from the freshly baked bun a young girl was holding, the sharp tang of an orange being peeled, the harsh musk of an older man rushing through - catching minute details of nicotine and jasmine. Finally, catching a direction, he was on his way. This time, he didn't even try to hide the slight hop and urgency in his step.
