Back in the day, before they banned smoking in pubs, you’d come home of an evening and your clothes would reek of cigarettes. And when you showered later it’d flare up again, in death throes as it washed from your hair. I always used to hate that.
But now I’m lying in a jacket that smells of smoke, and the sun is rising painfully, and I take comfort in the smell. Same smoke with a different meaning; an olfactory double entendre. Maybe it’s because all those other times it was stranger’s smoke. But this is the smoke of people I know. Smell I know the history of. Where it’s been. The lungs and the lips and the fingertips. Smells like friends and my grandma’s house. Family smoke. It’s a kinda tribalistic thing.
Or maybe it’s just ‘cos the jacket is warm. The sun keeps rising and I’m unable to sleep.