Chips

Rose Hips & Beef Chips Megan Morrison

I watched my crying child, running her sippy cup along the bars of her crib like a begging criminal. I grabbed her pacifier off the floor and passed it through the bars before going to my wardrobe. As usual, the pacifier calmed her down and I continued getting ready for work in peace. I slipped on my navy, pleated mini skirt, matching navy crop top, and red and white sailor scarf. After eating my breakfast popsicle, I pulled on my white knee-high socks—the ones with the red ribbon laced at the top—my black Mary Jane shoes, and my red hair bows. The bows made me look fourteen; four years younger than I actually was. Oh well, it was all the better for my job. People have always loved doe-eyed girls selling things. I grabbed Sophie, my now peaceful 4-year-old, and made the trek to the subway. The walk itself was never bad—the rolling hills were always gorgeous—but the air tasted funny the majority of the time. Some days, sulfur seeped into my taste buds, making me gag. Other days were like cold beef chips, which also made me gag, but less so. I was always grateful to make it to the gorgeously scented subway system: old newspaper and ammonia. It reminded me of my grandfather, who took care of me while I was pregnant with Sophie. My nose had always been the most sensitive part of me, which was why I was so good at my job. Just like other days, I was stopped by strangers who recognized my uniform. Sea Spray was the top name in the fragrance business, and I was one of the top saleswomen. My scarf had three gold bars on it, signifying my successful training in all three of the nasal arts. There were only four other women in the entire United States that held all three gold bars. The first nasal art used basic sniffs to describe generic scents. The second focused on honing the nostrils to describe detailed scents and infer events from them. The most advanced nasal art, which was my specialty, used the tongue to analyze scent molecules. This was what most people stopped me for. They wanted to see my “magic”. Sometimes I entertained them, but today was not one of those days. I was a bit grumpy from being woken up. Despite the early cries of my alarm clock daughter, I was still late to drop her off to daycare. Her teacher, Mr. Winkler, was going to charge me a late fee, but decided to ask for a favor instead. He wanted to see my magic. Of course I showed him; it was better than paying a monetary fee. Plus, I wanted to show off for him. He was a nice man, in his early thirties, and sometimes I felt that he was also interested in me. I led him away from the children. They wouldn’t understand the process.

“While I’m working, you are to be completely silent,” I told him, unbuttoning his shirt. “Do you understand?” He nodded, already following my instructions. I rolled up one of his long sleeves and one of the cuffs of his slacks. I removed one shoe and its sock before standing back up, meeting his curious eyes. No doubt he’d heard of the process but never actually had it done to him. I rose up again, meeting his eyes. “I’ll begin now,” I told him, raising my hands to his face. To my surprise, they quivered just a little. I have always prided myself on my professionalism, but Mr. Winkler made me feel a little…unprofessional. I gathered myself and pretended he was a random girl on the subway. I bent his head toward me and licked his hair. Quickly, I transitioned to his jawline, grazing my tongue along his jugular. Next, the sternum, followed by the inside of the wrist. Here I began to put together the molecular information on my tongue. He’d been to the gym that morning. Must’ve done a decent amount of cardio because, despite the pine-scented shampoo he’d used afterwards, the saltiness of his skin was still present. I continued, licking his hip bone, then the back of the knee, and finally the ankle. I stood back up, pondering the new information. He slept with a woman last night. Her rosy Ecstasy scent lingered on his hip bone. “Well?” he asked, buttoning his shirt and un-cuffing his sleeve and trouser leg. I told him my insights, trying to hide my disappointment about the mysterious Ecstasy girl. “Well that’s not fair, that last bit,” he complained, folding his arms across his half-buttoned shirt. “You were there, so you already knew that.” I was taken aback. How could I have forgotten? Sophie peeked her head around the corner, her tiny fingers curling on the edge of the walls’ meeting point. “Remember Mommy,” she said. “You and Mr. Winkle sprayed Ecstasy everywhere, but you sprayed Amnesia only after Mr. Winkle left.” Mr. Winkle was hurt by that last part. He took out a small vial from his pocket and dabbed his wrist. Immediately he brightened—he must’ve used Forgiveness, the newest scent at Sea Spray—and said, “It’s okay that you did that. I still love you.” I beamed at him. How could I forget his kindness to me? I licked his cheek, unprofessionally, before leaving for Sea Spray.