It’s a trace of perfume. Not even a whiff, no; a trace. That’s all it takes.

You remember the highs of laughter, the lows of groans, like an impromptu played by a well known composer.

You try to remember the piece- you try to make whole the perfume.You look at the woman walking past you, who you do not know, and try to superimpose your memories of the perfume onto her. But of course that doesn’t work. The perfume wasn’t meant for you; and you weren’t meant for her.

So you walk on- the weather is much more mild than you expected. You brought an umbrella, but you now realize you didn’t need to. You’re just another silly human being carrying an umbrella with not a cloud in sight.

You didn’t used to carry umbrellas. You didn’t used to mind the rain. But now you seem to carry umbrellas and mind everything.

And that’s when you see it- a bird landing, perfectly, on a tree branch.

The branch shouldn’t be able to support the birds’ weight. In fact, it doesn’t. If you don’t trust your eyes. But the rules of gravity have no bearing on the world you know to be true. In the world you know to be true, the bird rests wonderfully on the tree, a perfect example of nature propping each being to some sort of higher purpose.

You light a cigratte and try to get the perfume out of your memory, but it’s no use.