Written by Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos
The bus is early. It has to be a good sign. Patrick climbs the steps, scans the crowd and
lets out a muffled squeal when he spots the prune-haired woman two rows up. It is a busy route,
but he has perfected a system over the last six months: has observed the regulars, analysed their
comings and goings, noted, then memorised their stops—and scents. He mutters half-hearted
apologies as he pushes his way to the perfect spot to stand and wait. A minute later, Prune
collects her beige tote bags and rises. Amber, bergamot, white musk, and clary sage.
Patrick slides down into her seat and lets out a sigh before rummaging through his
briefcase for the blue folder to go through his notes one more time. This morning’s meeting is his
chance to shine, to show them his potential. If the clients sign, his career—his future even—will
be secured. He will be safe. He reaches for the pen in his breast pocket.
Patrick reads his notes, closes his eyes, recites the pitch in his head, checks, ticks, nods,
and replaces the files in his bag before gazing up to get his bearings. He has another five to ten
minutes, depending on traffic.
There is a little boy standing. He must be five or six years old, with curly blond hair
tickling his eyelashes.
Patrick blows his hair out of his eyes.
Some leftover chocolate has dried on the upper left corner of the little boy’s grin. His
mother holds his hand. Her face is as pale as Patrick’s gardenias—which reminds him he needs
to add lemon juice to the soil tonight. The woman is heavily pregnant.
Patrick grabs his bag, stands up and gestures for them to take his seat.
The woman bows her head, bends to talk to the boy, and moves forward. She lets go of
her son’s hand to grab the handle and lower herself onto the seat, a Thomas the Train backpack
wrapped around her wrist. Rose and lavender. The boy remains standing, waiting for her to settle
before climbing on her knees. He is careful, gentle in his movements. He pats his mother’s large
belly, speaks to it, chuckles, and opens the backpack to retrieve a book.
Patrick smiles when he recognises the cover of The Gruffalo, his favourite as a child. His
mother read it to him, then his Gran, until he felt confident enough to read it to his dog, Bouncy.
click-click-click.
Gran will be so proud if he pulls off the deal this morning. They will celebrate in the
evening; he will bring her tulips and some blueberry muffins from that place she likes. What is
the name? Sweet something, with a bright pink facade, two blocks from his office.
Patrick’s gaze returns to the little boy with the chocolaty lips and furrowed brows as he
struggles through the words in his book, his index finger tracing each line. The mother pats his
hair and kisses the top of his head.
Patrick swallows. He will get some chocolate muffins as well, for himself.
click-click-click.
When the bus turns the corner into the main street, Patrick presses the stop button, throws
his shoulders back, inhales, and gets off fifty metres to the left from his office building. He is
ready. He strides along, then zigzags between passersby stuck on their phones, reaches the
entrance and freezes. Lavender, bergamot and a hint of patchouli. He knows that scent. His
mother’s perfume. A lifetime ago.
click-click-click.
Patrick peeks through the glass doors. He arranged to meet his clients by the lift, next to
the tall, ugly plastic plant pretending to be a palm tree. He scans the lobby and gasps. A tall, slim
woman stands at the appointed spot.
Patrick’s breathing grows erratic. He rubs his sweaty left hand on his trousers, his right
still holding his pen.
click-click-click.
She has aged, yet is the same. Her posture. Her ‘I don’t care’ attitude. She laughs,
throwing her head back. The street noises dampen the sound, but it echoes loud and clear in his
mind, in his heart. She stands next to a teenage boy, her hand resting on his thin shoulder.
Her other son.
Her only son.
click-click-click… click-click-click… click-click-click.
Patrick strides to the bin by the door, throws his mother’s old pen inside, turns on his
heel, and walks away.
.
Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, and dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, and hates easy opening packaging. She is a contributor to Poverty House and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel Laundry Day was selected as a Runner-up at the Irish Novel Fair 2024. She lives in Athens, Greece. X/Facebook: @DelGeo14.