adjustments

On a day where I was disgusted by the dust on the streets, the glum grey skies, the recalcitrant fog, the intense inefficacy of this city, I was comforted by the fragrant smell of cut flowers arranged in a glorious bouquet wrapped in lavender tissue paper and cellophane, blossoms bursting into the car’s dim interiors. It was crowded, rush hour, probably around 6.45pm. I was standing, holding on to the railing in front of the door, people stuffed into the space so that I couldn’t see past the dark hair in front of me, but I smelled the flowers before I saw vibrant petals peeking out at me behind someone’s ear, green ferns jutting out of the shoulder of another person’s jacket. I found myself inhaling more deeply, starved for the sweet smell of flowers to drown out the ubiquitous stench of cigarettes and the even more intolerable putrid stink of sewage that seeps out of drains. At Fuxingmen, people poured out of the train alongside me; baby's breath drifts briefly before me and turns the corner.