The Day The Station Smelled Of Regret

He caught the faint smell while in line for the ticket counter, and thought to himself how unfair it was of life to deal him such a blow. Just when he was sure the pain had settled into a numbness, neither to be alleviated nor exacerbated, luck sends a passerby wearing her same perfume to reach into him and cut elevator cables. He found himself once again cursing his olfactory prowess that others often ignorantly assured him was a gift, not a curse.
Love inspires two kinds of pain. The first is a very curious thing in that it is the best pain one can have, and its allure makes masochists of us all. It is born as the fruit of infatuation when it is the agony of adoration, and matures if the love is realized and affirmed, into the tenderness of tenderness; the consciously, incautious vulnerability that comes with having what you want. Some couples don’t know or don’t bother to touch the fruit, and let it mold into monotony, rot into resentment, or decompose into divorce. Some couples know to have a picnic, cut the fruit up, feed it to each other with wine and cheese, and plant the seeds. But the fare-seeking Fredric didn’t allow for either option. With a one-night-stand, he essentially threw the fruit to the ground, squashed it, pissed on it, drenched it with gasoline, lit it on fire, and roasted a marshmallow over it (to stretch the metaphor).
This, of course, leads to the second kind of pain love presents; the pain of realizing that after years of being a loving and cherished Dr. Jekyll, you’ve thrown it all away for a chance to be Mr. Hyde. This revelation precipitates some of the deepest despair life has to offer, and is what led to the dread plaguing Fred’s heavy head the day the station smelled of regret. But, after much debate within himself, he mustered the strength to lift his gaze in the direction of an aroma he may never engage again.
And when he saw her, he swiftly crumbled. He dropped to his knees in tears so quickly it was as if every third atom in his body went on strike. His begs for forgiveness, his wails of apology and remorse, and his pleadings for anything remotely like a second chance went unanswered, save a stern stare. Those eyes that had for so long endured him amorously now held firm, doing their best to guard the emptiness and pain, the love and anger and sadness stirring tumultuously inside her. He saw her effort in supporting the soldiering stare and could barely hear over his own anger with himself when she said, “You forgot your shaving kit,” and extended the small leather bag. As she turned and walked out he said nothing, and it is doubtful any politician or poet among us could muster the right words, if indeed there are any.
Fred rose to his feet and bought a ticket to Vermont, where, after growing a beard out of apathy and depression, he found facial hair was fashionable. And in all the rest of his days as a writer, he never once had a shave, never once opened that small leather bag to reveal the quaint note inside that read:
“I need some time,
but please come back in about a month.
I’m furious, but I miss you already.
I love you.”