The Strange Smell of Sunday Morning

What is this strange smell in my house? I follow the flies to the dining room, I stop to see the bowl of beautiful guavas on my kitchen counter. It's been just one day since he and I walked through the beautiful promenade. We walked by the ocean. We walked through the farmer's market. I imagined what it would be like to hold his hand and rest my head in his chest. What would it be like to be loved by him? What would it be like to know that he would be there when I went to sleep and when I woke up? Every week we would go to the farmer's market and buy vegetables and fruits and talk about what we were having for dinner. I would be at the apples table and he would come behind me with fresh flowers. He looked at me as I imagined all this and we were just two friends not holding hands, not knowing what we were having for dinner, walking through farmer's market to get to the bank so we could have breakfast. Just two friends. We pass by a table and we both stop and walk toward the table with the guavas and pomegranates. We are consumed by the fragrance of the guavas. I don't know what he's thinking, but I'm thinking about the guavas my grandmother used to eat. Then he says, "I love this smell, it reminds me of my childhood on the island." Finally a connection! "Me too" I said. How much? 4 for a dollar. He bought 20 guavas for us to share and talked about how we love the smell of guavas. That was comforting. We get back to my place and he separates the guavas. He has to leave. We are not lovers from the same island. He has his island, I have mine. Goodbye. The next morning there is an awful smell, almost like the armpits of a wet t-shirt. How sweet things turn sour. Some friends come over and say, "what is that awful smell"? They can't possibly understand what those guavas meant to me yesterday. I guess I will have to throw them out along with my island boy.


Maiko Maya