First Exchange

Sometimes the first exchange isn’t all that meaningful.

You might not realize it, but hundreds of interactions may have occurred before you acknowledged one. The first exchange may go over your head. Or in this case—behind it...

For one hundred and seventy-two months, we didn’t know each other.

I went about my life, and someone went about theirs. 

And for three months, that someone I didn’t know, sketched the back of my head during science class. We didn’t speak. Not through words. She let her pencil speak for her.

From the desk behind, scratching of paper. I felt my messy adolescent hair, my neck, my uniform, and my slouched posture etched into something unseen.

But it wasn’t the sound that first caught my attention, it was the scent of graphite. It took me a while to realize it. 

This was when I really met her. Not the balcony.

She was always there. Right beside me. Yet I—she—didn't speak. It simply wasn't time yet. We weren't ready. 

I’d walk through a hallway towards my next class, and occasionally strands of blonde hair would brush past my face. I couldn’t remember what she looked like. It didn’t matter. Not yet.

But I’d remember the smells—floral conditioner that hadn’t been fully washed out, dried acrylics on her wrists; under her fingernails, the coffee on her breath. Something I’d only figure out later, was actually coffee jelly.

They say smells are heightened in memory. When you get older, your memories fade with you. They become less and less clear overtime. Eventually, the only thing you can remember are the smells. Like walking away from a firework show. The sounds become fainter as you do, but the scent of gunpowder? It lingers for much longer. It’s on your skin.

They say in death, the last thing to leave is your sense of smell.

“Alright, pair up!” our middle school science teacher said one humid afternoon.

And then I found myself standing next to the blonde. 

She’d dissect. I’d record. We worked in silence.

“I’m so glad I’m not a cicada,” she whispered to herself, cutting off its wings. “They sing for a while, then drop dead…”

Weirdo, I thought.

At the cafeteria, a girl sitting a few tables down, sometimes blocked the view of the courtyard outside. It mildly frustrated me, but not enough to confront her, of course. Her hair was my eclipse. Nothing more. 

Summer came. Like any summer before.

Occasionally, at the riverbed with Souta and Tohru, someone else was already there. 

“Augh, she took our spot!” Tohru would complain. “C'mon, let’s go.”

And occasionally as we left, from the corner of my eye, I’d see blonde.

When I did, I’d find myself smelling paint.

Tohru mentioned her once. His sister? His neighbor? I don’t remember. Back then, it didn’t matter.

“She told my parents that I’d been playing all night,” he once said. “Can’t stand her.”

Tohru’s parents were gone often. We’d play video games when they left. Well, mostly just Souta and Tohru. Most days, I’d go home.

But that day, for whatever reason, I didn't. 

I could remember the smell of microwave curry. The sounds of popsicle wrappers, crunching as Souta shifted in his beanbag. The yells from Tohru's giant mouth, coincidentally allowing a nosy neighbor to overhear.

And when Tohru lost one too many times, he’d say: “Someone get me a drink.”

I’d go as an excuse to stretch my legs.

In truth, my loud friend’s balcony view was nicer than mine. It overlooked fields. Vast rolling fields, dotted with little yellow and purple flowers.

Clink. Smell of paint.

And that’s when it always happened.

I still don’t know why that day was different. Maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps if I’d gone home, it wouldn’t have happened. But on that particular day, I didn’t.

“Hello.”

“Hey.”