Aftershave

A memory of someone that came on a breeze.

Aftershave

 

Sitting in his garden, he could smell the distracting waft of an aftershave on the breeze. Cheap aftershave.

 

It was a hot night. Late. And the breeze had only started seconds before his nose was full of this slightly annoying but brilliantly fascinating smell.

 

His mind drifted back to a time when he would shower, shave, dress and put on his own sweet scent; probably bought for him as a gift at Christmas or for his birthday. 

 

It reminded him of a man he met in his younger years; when dancing was seduction and when lighting a cigarette meant it was time for talk. 

 

He tried to remember the young man's name.

 

The breeze died and the night heat was once again the focus of his day. The scent, the man, the half memory, gone. Burnt by the remnants of a blistering sun. Forgotten again until next time. 

 

He sat and whistled a tune he had not heard in a very, very long time.