Some days in that part of the city where I used to live, near the train tracks and the Greek restaurants, when the wind blew you could smell chocolate from the factory. It drove everybody mad, waiting for the train and smelling all that sugar, imagining the nibs poured into our mouths. At the end of the day we came back on the same line, students with backpacks and torn sneakers, immigrants amid small islands of talk. Who in the coach was coming out of the day shift, and might they leave a powdery trace as they exited the doors? Marks brown as cinnamon around the bars they held onto, before melting away into the dark.
In response to small stone (202).