Walking
The car wasn't supposed to be there. Not that there was anything unusual about a car in a parking lot, that's what they were there for. The oddity was that it was late. The store was closed, and there were no other cars around it. The officer had investigated the car already, shining his flashlight in the window and finding it empty. except for an odd little dragon statue on the front dash. He was in his car now, watching it as he did some routine work.
Sure enough, the man he thought was owned it was walking up to it now. He was a tall man, dressed in normal street clothes, and smoking a pipe. The officer got out of his car and walked over to the strange vehicle with the strange man next to it.
"That your car?" He asked the man. The man turned to him. He was a young man, not a teenager, probably not a college student either, but still with an air of youth about him, like he hadn't embraced adulthood yet. Despite looking right at him, the officer couldn't get a clear picture in his mind of what the young man looked like.
The young man drew on his pipe and blew a bit of smoke before answering. "Yes it is, sir."
The smoke smelled sweet, it reminded the officer of growing up in the mountains, how the air smelled when the leaves were falling. The young man's voice was calm and confident, with the accent of a stranger to these parts.
"May I see your license, please?" The officer requested. He added the "please" without thinking about it, though he would never usually be so polite when on duty.
"I wish I could, but I forgot it at the house I'm staying at," the young man said. He gestured back up the road. "If you'd like, I can show you the way and get it. It's only about a mile from here."
"Why drive if it was so close?"
"I wanted to go for a walk tonight, and didn't want to walk through the woods to get into town. I thought it safer that way."
The officer found himself nodding. The young man's smoke drifted lazily from the pipe and he caught another small whiff of it. "Understandable. You won't be parked here long, correct?"
"No sir, I'm on my way home now, actually."
"Then I won't need to see your license. But make sure you have it on you."
"Of course, sir. It was an oversight on my part."
The officer nodded. "Good, drive safe." He caught one final smell of the young man's smoke as he turned and walked back to his squad car. Sitting behind the wheel, the officer looked back at the parking lot. And the car was gone. Had it left already...or been there at all?
Dancing
She had met him through a friend. And despite talking with him for over an hour, she couldn't remember his name. Yet she still found herself laughing, telling him about her dreams, and listening to his stories. He looked younger than her, though only a little. They had started walking and were now sitting at a park bench. She didn't like to stay out too late, but right now, the time wasn't important. She would look at her phone occasionally, but forget the time right after.
The young man had asked her permission to smoke. She had said yes. And now there was a pipe in his mouth and the smoke reminded her of the cinnamon rolls her mom would make on Christmas morning before they would open presents. When she was speaking, the young man looked at her, his eyes never leaving hers, smoking occasionally obscuring his face, just a little.
He stands up then, and offers her his hand. She looks up at his smile, pipe still in his mouth. She takes his hand. The young man leads her along the path, he says he has a surprise for her. For some reason, she's excited. She can hear music playing and he leads her to a clearing in the park with a pavilion. The pavilion is wrapped in white lights and there are tables and well dressed people all around.
It's a wedding. The couple is on the dance floor.
"Whose wedding is this?" She asks.
"I don't know." He smiles again as he says this. He leads her by the hand onto the dance floor. No one seems to notice them. Whatever the band is playing slows down. She leans against him and follows as he leads. They dance like they've done it a thousand times before. She can smell the smoke on his clothes and she feels happy.
"I don't know how to dance," she says, not even realizing that her feet are still moving.
"Me neither," he says, and chuckles. She laughs as well.
Minutes or hours, she's not sure, but they dance. She doesn't get tired. At some point, they leave the wedding. She's still holding his hand as he walks her back home.
"I don't remember telling you where I live." She says, her voice sleepy.
"You didn't." He replies. She nods. They sit on her front porch steps and talk. His voice is rhythmic, musical, and she finds herself nodding.
She wakes up to sunlight shining through her window and the smell of coffee in her house. She doesn't remember coming inside last night, but she's still dressed in last nights clothes. In her kitchen is a pot of her favorite coffee, a blend she hasn't had in the house for a few weeks. No one else is there. The place looks a little cleaner than she remembers leaving it the night before. The front door is locked.
She changes into more comfortable clothes, pours a cup of coffee and curls up in the corner of her couch. The coffee is perfect and she's not drowsy at all as she drinks. She thinks back on the night. She remembers meeting someone, talking to him, dancing in the park. She can't remember his name though. She can't remember what he looks like. But she remembers a smell; A smell of smoke, sweet like cinnamon.
She would like to smell it again. She'd like to talk to him again.
Calling
If she had wanted to, she could count down the seconds to when the phone would ring. Just when she had expected it to, after she sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, her phone rang. His name was on the ID.
"Hello," she said.
"Hey mom," he replied.
"Where are you now?"
"Maine."
"That's pretty far from where you were last week."
"True."
That was how the conversations always went. She asked questions and he gave a few words as answer. She'd tell him about things at home, how church was going, what his father was up to now in the garage. She always knew he was listening, even if she didn't hear his occasional "Sure" or "right".
Whenever she talked with him, she got the faintest scent of his tobacco, the type he had smoked at home. He never smoked inside the house; he'd go for a walk around the neighborhood and come back with the smell of it on his clothes and in his hair. Now, wherever he was, he always called home.
"You're still staying safe?"
"I am."
"Eating well?"
"Trying to."
"Well remember to drink water. I know you like to eat when you're bored, but drink water instead."
"I will, mom."
"Okay, well that's it from us, anything else you want to say?"
"Not that I can think of."
"Well it's always good to hear your voice, I love you."
"Love you to, mom."
And then he would hang up. Still it was good to talk to him.
She had talked to him, right? Of course, it was listed on her call history. He always called at this time. Of course she had talked with him.
Of course.
Fighting
He was mad and he didn't care who knew. He was also drunk, and wasn't aware that everyone knew. Things had not been going his way at work that day and he was at the bar to drink it away. Unfortunately the more he drank, the more he thought about it, and the madder he became.
And then there was that kid. Sure he was more of a young man, but when you're this man's age, guys like that are kids. This bar was one of those that still let people smoke in them and what does this kid bring in? A pipe. The men here smoked cigarettes, and this kid lights his pipe inside like some kind of dandy.
"Look at this kid, in my bar," he growled through yellowed teeth.
"Just ignore him, he ain't from around here. We'll probably never see him again anyway." His friend, slightly less intoxicated, tried to reason.
"You're damn right we won't." He snorted. His friend seemed relax a bit at this. "Cause I'm gonna make him disappear." He knocked over his stool as he stood up and half strode, half staggered over to where the young man was sitting. The young man was calmly drinking from a glass with nothing but brown liquid and ice in it. A more rational part of him said he could respect that, but the alcohol fueled anger drowned out any understanding he might have felt.
"Hey, boy." He said, looming over the young man.
The young man calmly looked up from his drink and looked the drunk in his eyes. "Yes?"
"The hell you think you're doin' here?" He leaned close, getting his face very near to the kid's. The young man made no move.
"Having a drink." He replied. He puffed twice on his pipe. The smoke curled up and into the big man's nose. For a moment, the smell of cigarette's and alcohol vanished from his mind and it was replaced with the smell of the perfume his wife would wear when they were still young and dating.
It was almost enough to bring him down from his frenzy. Almost. "Not in my bar you ain't. I want you out of here. And either you're getting out, or I'm taking you out."
"That seems like a lot of wasted energy." The young man replied. "Wouldn't you rather sit back down and have another drink? Seems like that's what we're all here for anyway." He blew another trail of smoke and the man remembered how his wife had wanted that perfume when their first son was born. He'd brought it to the hospital for her. He hadn't been spending as much time with his son lately.
He shook his head and glared at the kid. "You're wastin' your breath. I'm dealin' with you now." He reach a meaty hand down to grab the kid's shirt.
One moment the young man was there, the next, the big man had fallen on the floor and the young man was leaning with his drink on the bar behind him. He puffed casually at his pipe. The drunk tried to pick himself up, but he couldn't.
The young man finished the rest of his drink and tapped his pipe out in the cigarette bowl. He turned to the big man's friend and handed him a few dollars. "Get him some coffee, on me. I think he might do well get back to his family." The friend just nodded as the young man strolled out of the bar.
His friend came over and helped pull the big man up. "Come on, let's get you some coffee."
"Yeah...yeah, coffee sounds good." HE started digging in his pocket. "I've got a few bucks here for it."
"No need, I got some extra cash." His friend said. "I got it from...somebody. Just wanted to help I think."
"Nice of him," he mumbled. "Why was I on the ground again?"
Living
I met him while traveling. I was studying in a new country and learning about a history not my own. It was something I loved and wanted to do more of. But there were always times when it was stressful. Life is just that way.
It was on one of these stressful days that he sat down next to me in the park. I was on a bench by myself with a cup of hot chocolate in hand. He sat and asked if he could smoke. I could only shrug. I didn't feel like talking to the people I liked, let alone a stranger.
When he struck his match and blew smoke it seemed like it purposely drifted over to me, around me. The smell, it was new to me. It wasn't just the smell of tobacco, I was used to that, it was a whole new world. I looked over at him. He was a young man, maybe no older than me. But he held himself in a way that I never thought I could.
"You smoke?" He asked.
"No, had some friends who do. Cigarettes mostly. Doesn't smell nearly as nice as yours."
He nodded. "Not surprising. It's a special blend, this. What's it smell like to you?"
"I can't really describe it. It's like nothing else I've smelled."
He looked at me for a while, then slowly nodded. "Is that right." He took a few more puffs, then wiped the mouth piece off with a handkerchief. The cloth went back into his pocket and from another he took a tin of tobacco. He placed the pipe and the tin in my hands. "I think these'll serve you well, my friend. Pack it carefully, and learn to enjoy the taste." With that, he stood and began to walk away.
"Hey wait, where are you going?" I called after.
"There's a girl that wants to see me, and I think I want to see her again." He said. He waved and disappeared around a corner. That was a few years ago now. I still have the pipe and the tin. And for some reason, that meeting is one of the clearest memories I have.
