Remember that walk down to the city from the resort on the back road to the club in Playa when the air held a combination of eucalyptus and rotting fruit?
When we came home I couldn’t place it. It found me at the office, followed me sometimes in ceremonies and circumstances where tropical heat and a bass beat should not be interfering with the business of earning a living.
After vacation, my colleague walks by leaving a lingering fragrance. In an instant, a shot of dark streets and laughter swirls into my face as her body passes mine. There’s the leather of the eight chairs pushed close to the polished wood of the conference room table. There’s fluorescent light and the sound of paperwork and progress.
Yet her presence brings sharp awareness of wet sidewalks, the dip and weave of couples shuffling shoulder to shoulder to take over the dance floor, bodies shiny with exertion, their persons brushing each other, at hip, and hand and mouth.
I rest my pen on the page, lift it, set it, lift the tip to hold my confusion in the this sliver of space between the nib and the connection to the whitespace, searching for the reason I’m filling with nightclub energy when I am positioned to be serious and savvy and settled.
In your head, there’s a place that holds the scent memories of places, persons, fears. Steel yourself for the ones that carry your regrets and seek your truest self in all the rest.