Old Spice

Drish Delmont felt the air pressure change before he heard the rhythmic sound of rubber tires. The wind grew, rattling his dreadlocks until one fell across his face. The Old Spice smell wrinkled his nose. Drish had standards. He would never be caught buying Old Spice. Not having slept in his house, he had worked reluctantly with what the host’s shower had provided. He grabbed the clump of hair, felt the spongy texture and flicked it backward.

The metro arrived with a punch of wind that stung the eyes and flapped the clothes. The roar soon subsided to a whisper as the cars came to a halt. Drish flicked his head to replace the three dreads now covering his face. The metro doors opened with the familiar air piston whoosh and the jingle Dou-dou-dou! The clamor of voices, the shuffling of feet and the clunk, clunk, clunk of bags’ wheels on the tiled floor engulfed the space.

Boarding the metro, Drish grasped a metal handle. It was cold and slightly greasy. Drish’s mind registered the many sweaty palms that had touched the handle before him. He felt like letting go. “Is it worth it?” he asked himself.

“Prochaine station, Namur.”

The train jolted forward with a sharp backward jerk and the ever-so-present Dou-dou-dou! chime. Drish was happy he had opted to hold on to the metal handle. The swaying and pitching were substantial enough to prompt short grumbling bursts of complaints among the other passengers.

The metal handle was now warm from his touch. It felt smooth and well polished, and, more importantly, it was sturdy. It had not budged when Drish needed stability.

Drish thought of Eric, who smelled of Old Spice.