Wings of Desire

Yes, it is mayonnaise. I remember it from my first day, the construction worker and his lunch, impossible to forget. His wife put the mayonnaise, the cheese, and the salami into a blender. My orientation had covered the institution of marriage and the institution of the American sandwich, but on that morning I knew I knew nothing.

That was Philadelphia. That was some time ago. Now I am in a city called Calgary and the weather is getting cold again. Which is one of the reasons I am concerned about this woman. Her pink dress hangs from strings on her shoulders and though it floats above the asphalt, brushing her ankles, it does not seem to be keeping her warm. Also, she smells strongly of mayonnaise. I move closer. Her hair is slick with it.

This is both worrisome and exhilarating. Everything I know about this world denies the possibility that appearing on foot at the drive-through automated teller, looking and, yes, smelling like this is generally acceptable. But even as I churn in empathetic embarrassment, I am delighted again by the unexpected gift it has been to experience odour on this assignment. What is more emblematically human than the fine, fine line between stink and perfume? And yes, this woman poking her finger at the screen in the thin dress and flip-flop shoes and with the mayonnaise in her hair—which, though she must have purchased blonde hair colouring, is more of a sunset peach colour—is wearing a strong perfume!

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