Roses are Red

Although it sat on the shelf as proudly as its colleagues, Bowman never wore his “Mixed Roses” eau de toilette because it reminded him of summer.  He hated summer.  Summer was to him dampness and long journeys north to the mountains; or, even worse, southwards to the rural stench of the countryside.  Last summer, Bowman’s heart was split into various unequal portions by the girl that gave him the rose-inspired cologne – the real reason he now hated summer and, by extension, never used the aftershave. 

Victoria Park blossomed with fragrant marigolds and the sweet honey of alyssum - Bowman brought the roses. 

The pond water was green with algae and there was a smell of exhaust fumes from the adjacent dual carriageway.  He was clinging to her slipping fingers as she tilted her head to the side, away from his wide-eyed deer face.  She told him it wasn’t working out beside the ice cream van.  There was a fly trying to land on him.  He never wore that fragrance again.