Waiting

He had a new haircut, and he smelled like cologne and grilled cheese. He knew tiny flecks of freshly-trimmed hair waiting in his ears, he couldn't feel them but he knew they were there. In a perfect world he would have showered, but he had no time. In a perfect world he would have made a proper dinner. But he was low on food, out of butter, and could only fry two pieces of honey wheat in some bacon fat, and throw some extra sharp cheddar between them. It was delicious, but it stunk the place up. Why did he change before cooking? He knew never to do that. He broke out his forgotten American Crew, the same eighth-grade bottle, sprayed here and there, and considered himself disguised.

Would she recognize him? That was a silly question, of course she would. But, no, physically, yes, in that way she would. But would she recognize the man, the person he'd become, what was waiting underneath? Or would the stench of grease and chemicals be too much for her to see anything new?

He dipped his nose into his open coat. There it was, that cooking-frying-bacon-poor smell. He hadn't wanted to bathe in the cologne, but now he couldn't sniff it out at all. How many sandwiches, he thought, had he fried up in that place? How many scents was this coat holding? Why, why, why did he change before cooking?

He woke up at six even when he didn't have to. He belonged to a gym and read at least one book a month. He kept the back of his neck clean and his bed made. He didn't wait for the collars of his shirts to get yellowed with the wear of his dirty skin. He had a plant, and he was keeping the plant alive. He was no longer groggy in the mornings, he was drinking better alcohol, buying marbled beef. He had a separate bank account for travel, and a percentage of every check went there. He was going to visit new places, see new things, maybe even learn a language. Every thing had a plan and every plan was in place.

His nose still burrowed. He breathed in deeply, the way he used to breathe in his own gas as a child. A smelly and disgusting thing, but still part of him, and oddly pleasant. She was several stops north. He had time to think.