POEM 049/100

May 9, 2013

The bicycle courier

stood facing the elevator door, agressively

smelling of under-cooked beef shawarma


January 4, 2012

What kind of monumental douchebags do four people have to be that, in the very first second the elevator door opens, I actually consider not getting on?

Since I was looking at something in my hand, I hadn’t even seen their faces. All I’d glimpsed in that split-second was their coat-hanger thin frames from their pricey footwear up to their expensively clad shoulders. I decided the three blondes and the one young man were various forms of EA either from the 17th floor law firm or the media network advertising offices up on the 21st.

If they held positions higher than EA, they wouldn’t have exuded that uniquely sketchy form of bravado that’s entirely devoid of self-confidence yet they hope to pass off as self-confidence. They psychically reeked of the despair that comes from living in fear that others might smell the fear and despair on them.

They bragged about holidays in a slightly aggressive manner that made it sound as if they didn’t really enjoy themselves and made mean-spirited jokes about people they knew in common. The guy actually slapped his knee as he laughed a little too hard.

Being in such a confined space with them for no more than 20 seconds was intolerable. I never did see their faces because I couldn’t bring myself to look up from my shoes as I tried to squeeze myself into invisibility in the car’s mirrored corner.

I don’t think they saw me.

TwitFic #12: Scents and senses

March 12, 2010

She saw it as an oily lavender smoke, the scent which crept up into her nostrils like the damp stench of an open wound.

Somebody’s perfume.

She cracked her eyes momentarily hoping to discern who on the elevator was attempting to disguise their own stench with a floral surrogate.

The old lady with sunken cheeks? Her look suggested a flowery grave. The bicycle courier? Had he mistakenly used his wife’s deodorant spray?

By the fourteenth floor, she could no longer stand the noxious, enveloping cloud. When the doors slid open, she fled as if for her life. After climbing six flights of stairs to her office, she sat down with the ghastly truth—

 The offending scent was her new laundry detergent.

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