Everyone in the big city’s got ’em.
A scruffy man shambles on to the bus, picking at the inch-long dreads curling from his scalp. He sits down across from me, removes his shoe, and begins rubbing his foot inside a decaying gym sock.
“That’s all there is to it,” he muttered to himself as I exited the train.
The chills don’t hit me until I start up “Waiting For Godot” for my 8 AM class. A coincidence too trite to be believed; yet the thought hits me instantly: how did he know?
I instantly recognize the sweet vomit smell: the young woman sitting next to me has Dmitri Gin on her breath at 2:30 in the afternoon. At the mercy of the rancid odor, like pickled body odor with a hint of pine, her mints are useless.