She scours the crowd; forward moving cattle passing through the mall entrance. It’s hot outside and, despite the volume of people’s warmth causing friction, she is cooled. To her right is a bakery. Puff pastries, heavy breads, and chocolate eclairs are lined-up in single file behind the glass panelling. To her left is a donut shop. The delectable O’s are being dealt like cards to customers. The sugar glaze drips from the donuts’ golden surfaces. Glaciers atop a still and yellow sea.
The smells dance with each other under the incandescent lights and make their way up her nostrils. The sight of pastries was meaningless enough. However, the scent–the sweet sweet smells of baking bread and piped frosting, became much more important. Infused with meaning. Who would’ve thought that a mixture of eggs, flour and sugar would be capable of holding memories?
It never did get old.
She texted him of her whereabouts while on the road–on the way to their safehaven, tucked publicly between the bakery and the donut shop. He’d always respond. Tell her that he’d be waiting, unmoved on the same spot every single day. She’d arrive and find him standing to the side of the hall. She assumed that he hummed the minutes of anticipation away. Or that he tapped his feet to silence. Or that he counted commuters like insomniacs counted sheep. Sometimes, she thought of him drowning in the sweet smells (as if nostrils had taste buds). His eyes would be closed and a smile would slowly form on his lips. “Delicious,” he’d think.
They say that smells are powerful in that they can bring back the most hidden of memories. Every day grew into a memory.
She finds him in between the bakery and the donut shop and lets him take her into his arms. They kiss short kisses. He pulls back and stares at her. Smiles.
Serendipitously, he asks, “Donuts?”
