Logan walked towards his car, carrying the last of his things out of the apartment we used to call home. I followed him outside, but stopped by the door to stand with my best friend, Keen.
Turning around, Logan said, “Professor Bolas might not share your ‘cripples, fags and chicks are so very oppressed’ opinion, but I saw it in his eyes, Bekah, the man’s brilliant where it counts. He would have seen my potential if your mouth hadn’t shat on every chance he ever gave me.”
“Brainless views make benighted eye socket pretties, Logan, but see naught,” I said, while wondering if I would ever be able to explain to my brain why I had shared my body with a stranger for three years.
Getting ready to drive away, his eyes full of a fury that reeked of disgust, Logan’s gaze sizzled between Keen and me, before saying, “For fuck’s sake, woman! Speak like a real person. Or no one who matters will ever take you seriously.”
After he left, I wiped grief, disenchantment, rage and humiliation with the back of my sleeve. I wanted to keep anyone other than Keen from noting the evidence of my emotional deluge.
Keen walked closer to me, touched my eye with a finger, raised the moist digit to his nose, and said, “Petrichor, Rebekah love. From here on, nothing but reasoned rainbows.”
I smiled at him and at the world. For I, too, smelled the scent of cleansed tomorrows.
the wee notes…
– Petrichor: the pleasant scent that often accompanies the first rain, after a dry spell.
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights: “Nothing is more memorable than Scent”.
photo, by Robert Draves
(find more of his yummy work on Instagram)