Moreland Bouquett

Sometimes the long walks took Moreland into new parts of the city, blocks and blocks that he had never seen before or that had completely changed since the last time he had visited them. He learned every restaurant had a distinct smell, whether tucked into a basement or hidden behind frosted glass, and Moreland liked to inhale them all deeply. The only ones that were not unique were chains filled with tasteless food, and he wasn't sure that was a restaurant at all. He believed what he smelled could unlock the neighborhood, could show him how the people who visited dressed and moved, could tell him what they talked about, and even who they went home with.

Moreland liked to walk until he was lost, far from home, having followed his nose, like a bloodhound he traced the scent to its source. Walking was his way of avoiding the emptiness he felt in his heart ever since his wife had passed. His feet carried him away from the loneliness while his nose led him to new friends.

Today he was too lost thinking of his wife, nearly ten years gone. He's lost her in a car accident when an self-driving car failed to recognize her as a pedestrian. He had strayed too far, beyond the range of backtracking, often wrought with incorrect turns, his way back to his front door on foot. Searching for a street name that could lead him to a bus or a train, he was overwhelmed by all the smells of his journey.

Moreland liked to walk the streets because he could inhale the smells of foods leaking from the restaurants as he passed: fried, spicy, grilled, sweet, steamed, broiled, baked, and fresh. Glasses tinkled and silverware clinked, voices carried through the windows and doors. The smells were better during the warmer months, when the windows were open, and best if there tables on the sidewalk, where the senses were free to sense with less impediment. The smells were stronger, the noises were louder, the experiences were more vibrant and thrilling. When temperatures were lower, the sounds and smells were subdued, with little bursts when a crowd entered or a couple exited. He didn't mind waiting for a whiff because the payoff was more meaningful.

Moreland liked to walk despite his advancing years because he could unwind, let his mind wander, and remember the life he had lived. His wife had been the adventurous type in the kitchen, and used to make dinner he had no idea existed until she placed the plate before him. He missed his wife.

He walked quickly, faster than seemed possible on his stubby legs. A little sweat glistened on his forehead and cheeks when he kept the pace for more than a few blocks, but his breathing was never heavy or labored. Through his nose he drew deep breaths so that he could taste the flavors inside the intense odors, though he longed to place the foods on his tongue, where they would dissolve and melt.