Still Moving Smell

Sometimes someone asks the model to walk up and down. I'm never sure which bits to record or whether it's a useful exercise. Miss it though, over the holidays. But I had writers' group to keep me out of mischief. Enjoy that too - but I'm lazy. I had a month to prepare something inspired by the sense of smell - still ended up doing my homework half an hour before class tonight. Here it is. Raw and unpolished. Happened this afternoon.

Smell
I want to tell her not to bother because I'm only going home afterwards but it's her job and she primps and curls with her wand and fingers her oils through my hair anyway and I emerge from the acrid cocoon of perming lotion and purple tinsel and the inane natter of the salon into the rainy cold of the night.
I wait at the kerb to cross but the rush hour traffic keeps on coming and a bus blocks my vision. I wait some more and a voice from the bus passengers says my name.
A bloke. Capped. Hard to see.
He watches me struggling for recognition and takes his cap off. He says my name again. He knows me but I'm not so sure.
Then he smiles.
I see him now.
Greyer and lined and a little stooped but it's him. A travelling companion not quite lover from my college days a lifetime ago. He is whiskered and jacketed and seems dressed for something manual.
I make to hug him, not sure of the etiquette after over thirty years.
He's sure. He's very sure. I try to pull away after a polite hug but he holds on and kisses and kisses some more. I wonder if he's drunk but there is no pub smell.
I think I have unleashed some kind of dam. His deep giggle settles over me. When he finally releases me I am breathless.
"God you still smell the same," he says. "That musk stuff."
"Fancy you remembering that ," I say. I am impressed and surprised. Not many people surprise me these days.
"I won't ever forget it," he says and looks away from me into the night sky.
I make fast, awkward , small talk, enquiring about siblings and families and wives who turn out to be exes. He asks about husbands and children and potential grandchildren and we're in this limbo of traffic and wet pavement and then we run out of things to say and I make excuses about being cold and we say goodbye with promises of looking each other up but know we won't.
I get into my car and feel around for the ignition not sure whether to wave or even to look to see if he is looking.
I remember what he says about the smell of me.
It's not the same perfume of course... they stopped making it 20 years ago.
But I like that he thought he was remembering.