Last time I've seen him was in a deserted cafe in the middle of the city.
He has been traveling for a long time, a long distance - 800 km every week
- to take her hand for a while, say an hour or two at best. What he gets
was all that make things worst. He gets the sweet scents of her perfume in
those hours together and then when he becomes himself and alone again, he
would miss the real source of the scent; her body, her hands. Those are
the times when he smokes cigarettes like a train.
Late at night, sleepless by caffeine and nicotine, he would smell both
scent of nicotine and her scent on his hands, mixed, indistinguishable.
Her dislike of smoking, and his love for her makes a complex paradoxical
feeling inside him.
He should pay for love cause it would make you face to face with your real
self; a navigation into the filthiest and the most tender corners of ones
mind and soul.
I'm sorry for him. He is caught again on a crossfire.