Scents

He steps out of the quiet calm of church, into the enveloping warmth of a summer's day.
Head down, slightly cocked. He walks past a dumpster distractedly and is transported back to another time. He stops. He can smell the night air.
Shadows lace the street richly, obliquely giving way grudgingly to the dim, gentle orange halos of streetlamps. There's a cold crispness in the air, a suggestion of spring. He stands before the dumpster and picks up a cardboard box in delight. "Normal saline, for intravenous use".
The bus lurches, and around him people fall to the floor. He notices it distantly, grasping the vertical standing-poles a little tighter by reflex. There's a faint smell of candles in the air.
They're walking along the Rocks in the fading light of dusk. There's a scent, no, a taste of salt in the air, the faint tang mingled with the mishmash of smells a teeming city invariably harbours. Not much, not as much as you get, say with the sea, just enough to make you aware of it. She's taken his jacket off his shoulder, the ridiculous blue bomber jacket with its almost-boa lining the collar despite his blank no-thank-you's to her subtle requests if she can help him carry his jacket. He's got both hands full at the moment, carrying a cardboard box considerably lighter than it appears.
She points out a restaurant on their right, down a slight stairway; the place where everyone goes after their exams to celebrate, which he glances at with interest.
Flickering red light illuminates her face, casting soft shadows around the curves of her smile and highlighting the sparkle in her eyes. The scent of pine mingles with the odour of lit candles. She pulls the chilled bottle by it's base, out of his hands which grasp it's neck, thumb on metal, and they laugh. He feels the box being pushed against his knees.
Cobblestones, and the slightly moist, promising scent of parks and trees relishing the last days of summer. Speckled shadows dance in the greyness at their feet. She's a shadow at his side, matching his strides with hers. Or perhaps he is matching his strides to hers. He feels her look up at him before she speaks.
An aftertaste of... paint thinner? Acryllic? (He worries irrationally that it might be lead or asbestos) Something unpleasantly synthetic, as he tries to savour the slightly overdone korean barbeque. Time dwindles.
The cacophony of smells of a foodcourt, as they compare hand sizes.
Apple turnover, turned from the smells of it over some time ago within its crust, smelling of almost-freshly-baked pastry. A waitor tries halfheartedly to edge into the narrow gap between seats before going around to the side.
Sunlight streams low off the horizon into his downcast eyes, warming the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. A haphazardly coloured dog meanders its way past, nose to the ground an eternity in the future, a million miles away.