The Time Machine

The sense of smell is a magical time machine.
No other sense can take one back as quickly as smell can. In nano seconds, one is swiftly and magically transported to a time and place somewhere in the past.
For me, there are many smells that conjur up pleasant memories of yester-year. The scent of the baby pink rosebuds that grow in my grandparent's yard takes me back to my childhood and warm spring afternoons of me playing dress-up and make-believe there. Wearing them in my hair and assembling little perfect nosegays, the smell wafting in the breeze as I played. I was absolutely delighted when I discovered last spring, that the very same rose bush, grows in my yard here on Boundary Street. It cheers me to no end that I can go back to that place so much easier now.
If I close my eyes and inhale the smell of bread dough, I am again trasported to my grandparent's home, only this time I am in my grandmother's kitchen. She is making her famous rolls. I hear her bracelets bang together as her hands work the dough, expertly crafting perfect round little buns. On the radio, Johnny Mathis croons about chances as my grandmother hums to herself while I watch from the table.
Today, I was at work, stocking the latest shipments of magazines. One minute I was caught up in the shocking details of Natasha Richardson's tragic and untimely death, the next I am nearly knocked over by a scent that I was sure I would never encounter again. It surprised me and in a flash I was moved to a time just 2 months ago when I dared myself to trek of to Egypt alone and a man I met there.
Mostafa.
I looked around- he couldn't possibly be here now, could he? By now, you have read the entries from my Egypt diary below, and know the effect meeting him had on me- quite unexpectedly.
My nose tracked the scent to the older gentleman at the register to my left, loading his groceries onto the belt. The smell was soft and warm, spicy and in my mind, exotic. Mostafa. I inhaled again, deeply. My head buzzed.I sighed. Longing. While I did not fall in love with him, as amazing as I am sure he is, I did fall in love with his scent. And I miss being around him, talking with him, and laughing as allowed myself to become drunk off his intoxicating scent. On our last night together in Cairo, somewhere in the heart of the city, we sat across from one another at smoky little night club, while some friends cheerfully chattered on, I at long last inquired what the name was of fragrance he was wearing. He answered, but his words were drowned out by the music and the noise in the club, and I in my drunken state, failed to grasp it. Between the beer, his scent, and my saddness at my time in Egypt ending the next day, I was overcome by something that even now, I am at loss to describe in words. It was there that I openly confessed that I found his smell extremely enchanting. We flirted. We danced. It was lovely

Perhaps I was a little in love with myself in those moments. There I was, half way around the world without the company of anyone who really knew me. I was independent, selfish, strong, and in awe of the fact that I was even there. Brave girl was I, to traipse off to Egypt! And now I was flirting and dancing with a man I hardly knew, who's smell and smile were the loveliest things I had not even expected to encounter. Who was this woman? It seems I discovered and developed a little crush on the woman I never knew existed in me.
Now, it was odd to be standing there, in my navy blue apron, clutching a stack of People magazine to my chest, smelling. I didn't want to move, truthfully- I wanted to stay there and drink it in until I couldn't anymore. My head buzzed and I felt warm. A smile took up residence on my face. I must have looked like a grinning fool. I wanted to ask the older gentleman, what the name of his fragarence was called -I was too embarrassed to do so. It was funny also, because just last night I had dreamed Mostafa. In the dream, his back was turned to me, and we were watching each other, each thinking that the other was unaware of that fact. I could hear his thoughts, and feel his emotions, as I am often able to do in real life. I know I left a mark on him that he won't soon forget, even if he is trying to show otherwise.
He doesn't write back anymore, and I knew that would happen. I would be lying if I said it didn't bother me. It does- my ego doesn't like to think that he would choose to forget me. But somethings in life are not meant to be more than they are. And our time together, was everything it was meant to be.
By now, he has undoubtedly, met another strong, lovely, independent woman who is also drowning in his exotic scent. I wouldn't have it any other way- as someone as yummy as I find him to be- he should be appreciated.

Right now, I am having the realization after having been sober off Mostafa's scent for almost 2 months, I find that it still rocks my world.It's mysterious, surprising, and unexpected. I don't know if after today, I will ever come upon it again. I do know that scent will haunt me for the rest of my days, taking me back to those moments where I was learning things about myself and the world, while wrapped up in the trail of his scent. That scent of him, wherever I am in the world, will always take me back to those moments in our lives when the light of our eyes was a refelction of the chemistry sparked.