The Bridge is Over (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: Semangat, by Yaaseen
Very much in the Risk and Elevation territory at first, except absolutely none of the synthetic materials that spoil Risk. Smoky matchstick but the matchstick seems varnished. The varnish gets sweeter and sweeter—like a fruit-scented wood coating material and incensey hints that almost read salty-marine. If Kuru Kawa is the leather and metal of a samuri, this is the leather and varnished-wood of a training dojo.
The Bridge is Over
It would take years of work he did not have to remove the fear aroma thugs could smell from blocks away even in low quantities. Dressed too well, smelling too good, to play like he might be insane enough to lob feces, his tactic to avoid becoming their next mark had to harmonize with his life beyond them. He would walk fast through corner clusters, weaving with purpose. And when they tried to stoke trouble (“Run them pockets nigga”), blocking his path, he would juke—spin even— like a running back. Laughter (“This nigga!”) rarely proved purgative enough for their pain. They needed to stop him. But in their clutches he would finally look into their eyes and say “Out my way. Someone just shot my son.” It worked several times, as perfect as paper. That was until the time he found trailing him numbers (men, kids) swelling like a Rocky run. They had his back. What else could he do— he did not know the buses—but walk until he was in a new city, until the resolve to follow would have to be so Olympian that no man with it inside could bear hanging on corners?
