“Sorry boss, I think I’ll pass. This doesn't smell like my thing.”
It doesn’t smell like it should be anyone’s thing, the square a misery zone for the nose alone, yet the ones handing out free samples resilient (or just exasperated, desperate) in offering more of the scented wax sticks of regrets. Excuses and encouragement flow from their lips eagerly, pressing passer-bys to stay, one nudging a candle Tidus's way. That was someone else, that was just one candle; just help us see what’s the problem? It won’t take more than a second. Won't you?
But Tidus knows some of these smells beyond the taste of burnt cinnamon on the back of his tongue, and so he’s hands out, his head shaking, backing away by his heels; wanting nothing to do with one particular smell of the sea laced with singed flesh somewhere behind him. The smell of death. The smell of cremated toast. Why did he have to smell both of these things at once?
His tuft of his blond hair gives a small bounce with his exiting step from the conversation, and he bumps slightly into whoever it is at his back with an arm, catching them. He turns his head in their direction without fully regarding them, just to give a quick "Sorry!", raising an apologetic gloved hand too. But Tidus hurries to move along with that, to make his way out of this failed experiment. After weeks of miserable snow (which was still around, but somewhat manageable in small doses), more misery was the last thing Tidus wanted.
e-1
It doesn’t smell like it should be anyone’s thing, the square a misery zone for the nose alone, yet the ones handing out free samples resilient (or just exasperated, desperate) in offering more of the scented wax sticks of regrets. Excuses and encouragement flow from their lips eagerly, pressing passer-bys to stay, one nudging a candle Tidus's way. That was someone else, that was just one candle; just help us see what’s the problem? It won’t take more than a second. Won't you?
But Tidus knows some of these smells beyond the taste of burnt cinnamon on the back of his tongue, and so he’s hands out, his head shaking, backing away by his heels; wanting nothing to do with one particular smell of the sea laced with singed flesh somewhere behind him. The smell of death. The smell of cremated toast. Why did he have to smell both of these things at once?
His tuft of his blond hair gives a small bounce with his exiting step from the conversation, and he bumps slightly into whoever it is at his back with an arm, catching them. He turns his head in their direction without fully regarding them, just to give a quick "Sorry!", raising an apologetic gloved hand too. But Tidus hurries to move along with that, to make his way out of this failed experiment. After weeks of miserable snow (which was still around, but somewhat manageable in small doses), more misery was the last thing Tidus wanted.