New Short

Here is a new short, inspired by some gothic reading I've been doing lately for uni. This one is particularly inspired by John Harwood's "The Ghost Writer," quite a good read once you get into it. I'm only half-way through, but had to stop and write this.

A bit of a gothic romance, just experimenting with blending the two and using the theme of obsession. It's pretty prominent in the Harwood novel.

Her Scent
Tim Harvey


John had first noticed the scent when they sat quietly to lunch, just over a year ago. It was a sweet floral scent, but subtle and not at all overpowering. There were hints of citrus and mild spices in the aroma, and John inhaled deeply through his nose when he first caught a whiff. She appeared not to notice, quietly eating her sandwich, gentle little bites.
He had inquired into her interests and they both shared a passion for the theatre. John bit back his nerves and suggested they see a show, 'On the weekend, if you're free.'
She nodded and smiled.
During the play John sat quietly, watching the actors. His mind was elsewhere, however, indulging in the beautiful aroma that swirled around his head and left him intoxicated. After the play, he had walked her back to her apartment and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed and thanked him, 'For a wonderful evening.'
As John walked to the train station, through the city creaking of steel and crumbling concrete he noticed that the scent had followed him. Pausing in his walk, John turned his nose to the air, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The scent was there, drifting lazily through the night's cool breeze.
He turned to see if she had followed him, but only her scent was present. She would be tucked away in bed at this hour. John continued his walk and the scent traipsed along beside him, always present.
It was just a scent. There were no pink mists of floral elegance swirling listlessly through the air. There were no visible signs of the sweet aroma that hovered around John's head. It was, after all, just a scent.

John spent most of his time tending the small book store that his uncle owned in the heart of the city. It was wedged in a tiny alleyway between two enormous, overbearing skyscrapers. John sometimes felt pangs of vertigo as he searched for the sky on his smoke breaks. He tilted his head up at an angle, making sure he kept sight of the cobbles beneath his feet to avoid the dizzying head spins that would occur whenever his eyes traced his smoke through the air.
As he stacked books in the shelves in the back of the store he was overcome by her scent. He flicked through the pages of the last volume he had placed, trying to find the source of the aroma. The book held no evidence of her, and he hurriedly took another off the shelf. Her scent became stronger with each book he flicked through until he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.
Spinning around in a rush of embarrassment, John saw her standing behind him, suppressing a giggle. He felt his face go red and put the book down on the shelf. Her smile was vibrant and alive, and her scent was powerful in the way that it took over his thoughts.
She gave him a gentle hug, and John nestled his head against her shoulder, allowing his nose to rest near her neck, the source of the scent.
They arranged to have dinner and John found it painfully hard to watch her go. The scent fading as she left the store.

John ordered a salad, no pepper, no spices, just salad. She thought this strange and John wondered if she would take it as a compliment if he said he wanted to savour the aroma that she so casually emitted.
The salad was amazing, thanks to the sweet taste already infused in his senses. They spoke of their favourite books and she suggested that John read a volume of poetry that she adored. She told him that she had read it constantly since she was sixteen, and John felt his senses aroused to levels he had never experienced.
After dinner, when they had made the short walk to her building, John leant in to kiss her on the lips. She held him back with a reassuring smile, and instead invited him up for coffee. He gladly accepted and followed her up the flights of stairs to her apartment. With each step, John felt weaker and weaker, as her scent wafted down over him.
Her apartment dripped with the smell. Each item that she lovingly handled became infused with her aroma. John sat on her couch and was engulfed by a cloud of sensuous floral bliss.
She made them some coffee and brought out the book of poetry. John attempted to grab the book, but she held it back with a seductive glance, instead, curling up on the couch opposite him, reading aloud.
Her voice was sweet and soft, but her scent was raw and passionate. With each line, the poetry became dim, and eventually John couldn't hear at all. He rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes, bathing in the fiery aroma.
It was just a scent. There were no vivid explosions of neon orange fireworks bursting above his head. There were no trails of shooting stars rolling towards him across the sky. There was no visible sign of the passion in his heart. It was after all, just a scent.

John awoke the next morning in his own bed. The copy of poetry sat on his bedside table. John picked it up and hesitated before holding it to his nose and flicking through the pages. The crisp breeze on his face and the rush of spicy floral passion left him drunk. He spent the entire morning doing this, each time feeling happier and stupider all at once.
After that night, she didn't visit him at work again. He saw her occasionally in the streets, but she seemed not to notice him. Her scent appeared in strange places, causing John to look around his to see if she was there, but she never was.
He would smell her in his bathroom, as he prepared to shave. Once he smelt her as he walked past a department store. He had to walk down every aisle to confirm that she wasn't casually spreading her scent around the store.
Eventually, at the beginning of winter, they met again. She smiled and kissed him gently on the cheek. Holding her warm hands against his cold cheeks, she stared uncertainly into his eyes. He reached into the pocket of his coat and wrapped his fingers around the edges of her book of poetry.
Her eyes filled with sadness as she took it in her hands. The cover was crumpled and bent, the pages loose and curled. She wiped a tear from her eye and offered John a weak smile. He leant in to kiss her on the cheek, but she shied away. The hand that she rested gently against his chest was enough to let him know that it was over.
She turned to leave, and a wave of her scent rolled over John, rocking him where he stood.

John saw her again during the worst of the winter, at a coffee shop near to his book store. She sat far away, and John sat near the door reading a newspaper. He didn't need to see to know that it was her. At first he could only smell her faintly from across the room, but with each passing day her scent became stronger.
It was only a scent. There were no instances where she sprayed some elegant perfume casually over her shoulder to attract him. There were no green particles of her scent gliding restlessly across the coffee shop, catching the light as they flew towards him, unnoticed by the other patrons. The mist of her allure didn't gather at his ankles and suffocate him in intoxicating bliss. It was after all, just a scent.

She left after the winter. Through the spring her scent remained in odd places. John smelt her on the train, and hiding behind parked cars. He smelt her when he opened his mailbox. Disappointment washed over him as he flicked through the letters, holding them to his nose. She wasn't there.
Her scent eventually faded in the summer, and John began to live his life once more. He became the manager of the book store when his uncle had retired. With the extra money that he had John bought himself a nice suit and a used car.
During the summer John began to socialise more. He introduced himself to a girl who had been a regular customer at the store for years. They got along well, and John eventually asked her out to dinner.
She had a scent of her own, but it was nothing like what John had experienced before. Despite his initial reservations, John asked the girl on another date. Eventually, by the end of the summer they were a couple. John was happy, and she shared his joy. They went out dancing together, and John took her for long drives to the beach in his car.
For John, there was something missing in their relationship, but she seemed truly happy and John didn't have the heart to tell her what was bothering him.
On Valentine's Day she told him that she loved him and John kissed her gently on the lips, saying, 'I know.'
He had scoured every department store and boutique on the weekend before the day, trying to find a perfume that matched the scent in his head. For hours, he sprayed all sorts of expensive smells onto testing paper provided by the salespeople. Each one failing to recapture the beauty and grace of the sweet floral aroma that he had once known.
After this, John had visited every florist trying to find the right bouquet, the right combination of flowers that equalled the passion he had felt. The bunch that he had eventually picked was a poor substitute, despite his girlfriend claiming she loved them with excitement. This excitement faded when he couldn't tell her that he loved her back.
It was just a scent. No perfume, or flowers could ever make up for what was lost. There was no way of trapping that magic in a bottle, no way that it grew from the ground. It was, after all, her scent.

She returned in the winter. He smelt her as he was walking and hastened his pace to see if she was around the next corner. She was indeed back, from wherever she had vanished to. John watched as she passionately kissed a young man, pressing him up against the wall of a building.
Her scent wafted around the two of them, and John watched on as their embrace lasted. Once they were done, the young man pulled a small parcel from his pocket. She eagerly unwrapped the brown paper and held her hands to her face when she saw what it was. John could see from the spine, that it was a freshly printed copy of her favourite volume of poetry.
She leant in and kissed him again.
John went straight home after this. He imagined the types of endings that would fit his story. He could kill himself, or murder the happy couple. He could marry his girlfriend out of spite. He could do all three in an unholy trinity of horror. But each possible ending exhausted him.
John spent a few days at home claiming he was sick. He apologised to his girlfriend and asked her out for a date on the weekend. She reluctantly accepted. He smoked heavily to mask the scent, but eventually quit.
The date went well and afterwards, in a moment of weakness, John explained the whole situation to his girlfriend in detail. He was surprised when she accepted his story with a smile and offered him a hug.
Eventually they did get married, and John sold the book store, making a considerable profit due to its prime location. The couple moved to the suburbs and after a few years, had a daughter.
Their marriage wasn't incredible, but it was, John thought, what a regular marriage should be. John worked from home, as a literary critic, and his wife worked as a teacher.
John felt safe that he was finally free of her scent, but he still smelt it occasionally. It hovered around when he went for a walk to the park. It followed him home as he came back from the supermarket. He smelt her sweet floral aroma when he tucked his daughter in at night.
It was just a scent. It wasn't following him around, it didn't lurk in the shadows waiting to strike. There was no visible signs of it hovering in the air, poisoning his house and everyone in it. It didn't choke the life out of John, until he couldn't think or breathe. It was, after all, just a scent.