The Fragrance of a Tuesday Afternoon

Fiction

The kiosk was a narrow slice of mahogany wedged between a newsstand and a laundromat. It held no books, no tobacco, and no lottery tickets. Instead, Elias kept hundreds of small glass vials, each stopped with a plug of beeswax and bound with a single loop of twine. The labels were handwritten in a cramped, clinical script: (Commuter, 5:14 PM, Rain), (Newlywed, First Quarrel, April), (Old Man, Sunday Silence). Elias did not look up when the woman approached. He was polishing a vial with a scrap of grey flannel. The air around the stall tasted of ozone and wet concrete, a byproduct of the hundreds of captured breaths vibrating against the glass. I am looking for a specific vintage of longing, the woman said. Her voice was thin, stripped of ornamentation. Elias paused, his cloth hovering over a vial. Longing is a broad category. One might be seeking the longing for a place that no longer exists, which usually carries a scent of burnt sugar and old paper. Or perhaps it is the longing for a person who never existed, which tends to have a metallic, copper-like finish. Which hypothetical version of absence are we discussing? She leaned in, her coat smelling of damp wool. I want the kind that tastes like oxidized iron. The sort of longing that hits you in a crowded room when you realize you are the only one who remembers a particular joke. It should smell like a basement after a heavy storm. Elias shifted his gaze to the lower shelf. He reached for a vial that looked slightly clouded, as if the breath inside had condensed into a fine mist. He held it up to the grey Tuesday light. This was captured in a subway station in 1994, he said. The subject was watching a train depart without them. It has the graphite notes you are looking for, though there is a lingering hint of cold coffee in the finish. It is a heavy specimen; it does not float so much as it settles in the lungs. The woman took the vial. She didn't open it immediately. She felt the weight of the glass in her palm, considering the commodity. In this district, sighs were traded like spices or rare coins. Some preferred the sharp, acidic tang of a sudden realization; others sought the creamy, muted tones of a long-held secret. How much? she asked. Elias finally looked at her. His eyes were the color of slate. A fair trade would be a memory of equal weight. Something you no longer wish to carry, provided it has a distinct sensory profile. I have enough grief in stock for three lifetimes, so please, nothing generic. The woman closed her eyes. She exhaled a slow, trembling breath into a vacant vial Elias provided. The glass fogged instantly, then cleared to reveal a swirling, iridescent vapor that smelled faintly of crushed mint and old libraries. Elias corked the vial and weighed it in his hand. He nodded once, a gesture of professional satisfaction. Measured and precise, he murmured. A very clean vintage.