I'll Always Hate the Smell of Mangoes
I'll always hate the smell of mangoes. That was the scent she was
wearing the day I met her. I was sitting in the lobby waiting for a bus that wasn't
coming. We'd engaged in small talk a couple times before, amiable yet perfunctory
conversation. She was wearing some sort of Burnt Sienna-colored jeans and a french knit
hat--what were supposes to be unmistakeable symbols of her cultural diversity. And the
smell...that pervasive, encompassing vapor, buried deep within the fruity aroma of
mangoes. Casually, deliberately, she slid into the seat next to mine. My stomach swayed in
the tumultous frenzy that lies somewhere between nausea and butterflies. She made on
offhand remark about something or other; I smiled and nodded, mumbling something in
superfluous reply. We bobbed our heads and smiled and numbers were exchanged.
She called about a week later. I'd all but forgotten our exchange. We
discussed the everything and nothing spanning our lives. She soon began to frequent my
room. At first we were like marrionettes dancing on very taught strings--all of our
actions carefully orchestrated, our tension guiding each movement. Within weeks, however,
tension surrendered to routine and we danced of our own accord, tangled in the trails of
our severed strings.
After a while I didn't even notice the perversely fruity scent, that
wretched bane of olfaction. I was content in both nose and heart. Both had grown
desensitized to the particulars; a general sense of passive acceptance permeated my
consciousness. It was the dreams that persisted in dissecting my still-born peace of mind.
Her arms lay crossed protectively--corpse-like--across my chest as we
slept; she feebly attempted externally to possess what she could never obtain internally:
me, that is, my identity, my being. My body lay still as we slumbered, but my mind soared
and swirled and sculpted with a fervor and purpose my body could never know. It molded the
landscapes of the what-could-have-beens and could-be's and should-have-beens and
should-be's. And it was here that I could find no solace or escape from the horrifying
smell. Here the it is pursued me relentlessly, bringing sunset to the untouched pastorals
of memory and desire. With the smell came fear--fear like I had never known--not the fear
that lies in regret about the past, or the fear that lies in uncertainty about the future,
but the fear that lies in contempt for the moment: the fear that is regret and doubt and
the accute sense of self all plunging headlong into a collision of horrifying
lucidity--the moment.
The smell, the it is, seemed not only to pursue me, but actually to
pervade me. It emanated from the very clay with which I forged my dreams. Though my body
had slowly embraced, even welcomed, the smell, my unconscious mind revolted against it; my
very being shuddered to sculpt such tainted features. Nightly I was plagued. I shut my
waking eyes and opened the sleeping ones, night after night, peering into my own distorted
face, bending and swirling like in a carnival mirror. All the while I lay comfortably
locked in her arms, she grasping to hold me and I trying to escape me.
It was something she would never understand, would never want to
understand. Her dreams were pure, untouched by the it is, free from her own terrible
smell. Each night she stared, unaffected, into an unmarred reflection of her own callow
eyes. She awoke every morning undisturbed, lulled out of slumber by the dull insistence of
her alarm, unaware that it was either dull or insistent. On rising, she would often steal
a glimpse of herself in the mirror on her bedroom door before beginning the day's routine.
I watched this each morning with disinterested amusement, relishing the notion of slipping
into the serenity of dreamless sleep and an empty bed.
It was on such a morning that I awoke to the faint odor of mango. I
thought she'd relinquished the scent; I certainly couldn't remember the last time I'd
smelled it. Or had I just stopped noticing it? Maybe I just couldn't remember having
smelled it. Maybe I'd forgotten how to distinguish the smell. Had she tried to cover it
up? Perhaps that morning I'd awoken with part of the dream intact. Whatever the case, the
odor was unmistakeable and its presence, undeniable.
She freely admitted to using the scent, of course. She didn't
understand my objection to it. She'd always worn it. Everyone else adored the fragrance.
But me, my stomach churned and rolled in a tumultous frenzy every time I chanced to catch
wind of the fetid odor. Our slumber gradually shifted back to my slumber; my sleep was
solitary once again. Though my body sometimes shivered with the cold, my unconscious mind
marvelled at the newfallen snow that lay blanketing the pastoral landscapes of my dreams.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The winter of my thoughts slowly gave way to spring. I stepped outside and gazed at the vanishing sun. It seemed to provide only light during the course of the winter, but with the new spring it seemed once again to glow with warmth. Our eyes meet as she ascended the stairs. We'd never met, only seen each other around campus on occasion. As she lowered herself onto the step beside me, my stomach rocked with that tumultous frenzy that very nearly resembles butterflies. A faint fruity aroma passed under my nose and dissipated. I'll always love the smell of mangoes.
