Moreland Bouquett

Moreland stood before the picture window filled with hanging sausages, dried jerky, smoked slabs, ribs, and birds, plucked clean, dangling by rope. His mouth watered. He entered the shop, breathing heavily and sweating lightly, having ran.

Inside, a man stood behind a counter over refrigerated glass cases wiping his hands on a white towel patched with hues of red. The man eyed Moreland and rubbed his lips together, as if spreading chap stick or satisfying an itch. He had a spider web tattoo on the right side of his neck and a fading dagger on his forearm. Days of stubble, in uneven patches, threatened to cover his face.

Moreland approached the counter carefully. Stopping stiffly near the scale, unable to make eye contact, he stated simply, "Lamb."

The man drew his eyebrows together.

"Do you have lamb?" Moreland spoke slowly, with great care.

The man flipped the towel over his left shoulder, and spoke: "Evening. How are you?" He smiled. "You see, I prefer, that we start with at least one pleasantry. Really makes the whole thing a lot more worthwhile."

Moreland stood dumbly for a moment, unsure. He placed his hands onto the glass and leaned in. He whispered, though he couldn't have said why, maybe he was intimidated by the tattoos, "I'm really sorry. Hi. I hope you're well."

"I am."

"The thing is, I swear I just smelled fresh lamb. This caused a bundle of memories from my childhood, my grandma, cooking, her house." He paused. "So you can see I need some fresh lamb to bring back the rest of the memories."

"Nice little story. But you're out of luck, too late in fact. The last of the lamb just walked out the door."

Moreland groaned.

"Quite popular. Wonderful for business." The butcher crossed his arms over his chest.

"Thanks anyway." Moreland slumped, and his gaze fell to the floor. He turned slowly away from the counter.

Sometimes the long walks took Moreland into new parts of the city, blocks and blocks that he had never seen before or that had completely changed since the last time he had visited them. He learned every restaurant had a distinct smell, whether tucked into a basement or hidden behind frosted glass, and Moreland liked to inhale them all deeply. The only ones that were not unique were chains filled with tasteless food, and he wasn't sure that was a restaurant at all. He believed what he smelled could unlock the neighborhood, could show him how the people who visited dressed and moved, could tell him what they talked about, and even who they went home with.

Moreland liked to walk until he was lost, far from home, having followed his nose, like a bloodhound he traced the scent to its source. Walking was his way of avoiding the emptiness he felt in his heart ever since his wife had passed. His feet carried him away from the loneliness while his nose led him to new friends.

Today he was too lost thinking of his wife, nearly ten years gone. He's lost her in a car accident when an self-driving car failed to recognize her as a pedestrian. He had strayed too far, beyond the range of backtracking, often wrought with incorrect turns, his way back to his front door on foot. Searching for a street name that could lead him to a bus or a train, he was overwhelmed by all the smells of his journey.

Moreland liked to walk the streets because he could inhale the smells of foods leaking from the restaurants as he passed: fried, spicy, grilled, sweet, steamed, broiled, baked, and fresh. Glasses tinkled and silverware clinked, voices carried through the windows and doors. The smells were better during the warmer months, when the windows were open, and best if there tables on the sidewalk, where the senses were free to sense with less impediment. The smells were stronger, the noises were louder, the experiences were more vibrant and thrilling. When temperatures were lower, the sounds and smells were subdued, with little bursts when a crowd entered or a couple exited. He didn't mind waiting for a whiff because the payoff was more meaningful.

Moreland liked to walk despite his advancing years because he could unwind, let his mind wander, and remember the life he had lived. His wife had been the adventurous type in the kitchen, and used to make dinner he had no idea existed until she placed the plate before him. He missed his wife.

He walked quickly, faster than seemed possible on his stubby legs. A little sweat glistened on his forehead and cheeks when he kept the pace for more than a few blocks, but his breathing was never heavy or labored. Through his nose he drew deep breaths so that he could taste the flavors inside the intense odors, though he longed to place the foods on his tongue, where they would dissolve and melt.