Her Petrichor

I always love the smell you catch after the rain. You know, the smell of wet earth, which was better when it met freshly mowed grass. Best if you have a book to sniff afterwards. I read somewhere on the Internet that it was called petrichor.

There she was. Walked down the paved path, effortlessly gracious like she was floating instead. I guessed that would always be her secret weapon: be effortlessly gracious. That, and her ability to charm everyone who get too close to her.  I knew that too well.

She noticed me sitting on the park bench and waved her hand to catch my attention. As if she need to do that. I looked up from my note book, nodded, and smiled to her. She approached me with a bright smile, as if she just walked out from a picture of toothpaste advertisement.  As she came closer, I closed my book and made some room on the bench for her.

Then she started to tell me the story of how he called her last night, that big college basketball star. How he asked, no, begged for her forgiveness, like million times before. How he came to her house right at midnight, flew balloons to her bedroom window, and tied some roses to the last balloon. I just smiled and listened to her story patiently.

Just like last Saturday.

I picked her up from a coffee shop, a puffy-eyed girl with shaky voice. It was in a mall, she went there with him of course, but then they met one of his, ah, girlfriends. I said one because I was sure there are others. Who she didn’t know yet. I knew them, after all he was one of my highschool friends. I knew his notorious reputation. The girlfriend went mad at them, shouted and made a scene in the lobby. Humiliated, she ran to the coffee shop, called me, and stayed there while tried to calm herself with a cup of chamomile tea as she waited for me. He didn’t run after her.

.... or like the first day of our sophomore year.

Her highschool sweetheart turned out to cheat on her while he told her he was busy with his college in other city. She caught him holding hand with a girl in a restaurant at the other city, when she was having family dinner at the exact same restaurant after visiting her relatives who live at that city. She didn’t go mad at that time, only greeted him and his other girlfriend to make sure he knew she was there. She had dinner with her family afterwards, laughed and talked like nothing wrong happened, but she immediately texted me to meet her at her house the next day after she came home. She told me the story and cried for hours, until her voice became hoarse. I wanted to hug her, but I surpressed the thought since I didn’t want her to realize my real feeling. Thank God I didn’t hug her, since her highschool sweetheart came to her house at that exact moment, brought flowers, chocolate, and everything to ask for her forgiveness. She didn’t forgive him, although she began to attract every boy’s attention as soon as they found out she was single. Well, who can blame those who caught her charm. She was irresistable.

It was always like that. She was disappointed, called me, cried, and then she healed. She stayed with me some time when she was healing, then she met someone. She began to date him, or him, or him. Well, he could be anyone. But not me, he would never be me.

Remember that delightful smell after the rain? That was what I will always be. Her petrichor. The one who made rain bearable, because she knew she would have me later on. The one who lingered after the rain, to make sure she is alright. The one who stayed for some time, but after the sun came back will be forgotten. After all, the petrichor would never be able to replace the sun. Ever.