His nostrils were teased by the cologne of one with greater adventure and strength than his own. The odour taunted him. It both repulsed and attracted. He squeezed the tube and ran a liquid line, clear against white. Tarzan’s Grip dried tight, grasping the page closer than the compilation of kindergarten craft required. The adhesive was all he could find.
The glue’s fruity, sweet smell breathed into the room. The aroma, a modern day genie, freed from its soft tube prison, to grant a wish of adherence. His thoughts ascended and danced with the vapours that took Acetone as their base.
The same smell painted her nails. The brush strokes placed with concentration. A realist painter. Herself the subject, her body a canvas. Colouring her life from a bold palette of soft bristles.
While away, he was nowhere. His thoughts floated in the fumes, and drifted as an untethered balloon. The clock bought him back. It’s rhythmic tick, a brass fanfare, that signalled return from a moment he became unstuck.