A Rose Can Be Too Sweet

(Originally published on January 8, 2021, revised November 20, 2022)

Revisions aside, this was based on very current events at the time of original submission. It was written over the winter holidays at the end of 2020. Though COVID isn't the main focus, it's significant to the plot. If that might be a "trigger," we ask you to skip this one.

The story extends into late 2021, which, at the time, didn't yet have its history recorded. Thankfully, it seems to have stood the test of time as this update is posted.

As always, every character is of adult age.

This whole pandemic "thing" has introduced new words and phrases to the everyday vocabulary of those paying attention to the news. Things like "N95", "social distancing," or "six feet of separation," are front and center, along with "Face Coverings Required" signs, et cetera. Every big-box store has tape on the floor at the registers, and many also have "one way" signs in their aisles.

Hell, where I live, "curbside pickup" was a very rare convenience at very few restaurants. Now, every single eatery, at least those which have managed to stay open, offer it as a way for both the customer and the business itself to try to stay alive.

Early on, a word was introduced to the unaware.

Anosmia . The loss of the sense of smell

The word was identified as a symptom to be watched for. That's how my older brother realized something wasn't quite right.

Our mother had made a meal one particular night, it being his favorite since it happened to be his twenty-first birthday. It was too rich for my tastes, so I opted for a simple sandwich instead.

I remember him asking, "Did you change the recipe?"

"Same as always," our mother said. "Why?"

"It just seems—I don't know… kind of bland?"

He picked up his plate and sniffed the steaming casserole.

"It doesn't smell like normal."

He reached over the table, his hand moving toward the pepper grinder.

He stopped short and said to me, "Grind some of that into my hand. I don't think I should touch it."

I stared at him. He gesticulated and bobbed his head toward the grinder, so I did what he asked.

He held his palm up to his nose, tentatively sniffed, paused, then snorted. I saw a number of the fine grinds go straight up into his nostrils as if it were some sort of snuff.

"Nothing," he said. "Absolutely nothing."

"Camp has the 'rona !" I said, getting out of my seat and jumping away from the table.

"Campbell, tell me everything you've touched today," Mom said.

He identified a dozen or so things, and she, already having donned her mask, followed him around the house with a bleach wipe and aerosol sanitizer, leading him back to his bedroom where she told him to keep his door shut and group-text the family if he needed to leave the room for a bio-break or something. She left the package of wipes and the can of spray in the bathroom.

She unfolded a TV tray in the hallway next to his door, brought his food and placed it there before coming back to the kitchen to wash and sanitize her hands.

"Lucky him," I said.

"Well, we'll be lucky if the three of us don't already have it," my dad said.

"I guess we should all go to the pharmacy and get tested tomorrow," said Mom.

"Camp'll have to take his own car. Finn, you take yours, and your mom and I will go together, I guess."

Lo and behold, three days later, Camp's test result came back positive. Luckily, my mother's and father's came back negative. Mine did, too.

At that point, I was about ready to sneak into his room some night, stick my finger in his mouth, then shove it up my nose, because I hoped maybe I'd be similarly affected as he had. But, of course, it never happened, because I'm not a freaking moron, or that disgusting. I do admit, though, I was a bit envious of him.

His three-day cough sounded wicked, but he managed to pull through with only sore ribs for a few days after the coughing eased. Two weeks later, he cleared his second negative CV19 PCR test, and he emerged from his bedroom quarantine.

Anosmia . It'd be almost a blessing in disguise.

I'd lived with its opposite for a good chunk of my life. Yeah, I have suffered from hyperosmia since I was like nine or ten years old. Most of the prior decade was an absolute pain in the ass.

At home, I had no problems managing my condition, because the family, sometimes begrudgingly, adapted to it. Plus, there's the "olfactory fatigue" effect, which means any odors one is constantly subjected to seem to fade into the background. I know, it sounds absolutely crazy, and by all accounts, it is. My mother was the first to notice something was going weird with me when she tried her hand at cooking a new recipe with spinach as an ingredient.

I wasn't particularly fond of spinach at that age, but I could eat it if I didn't have a choice. I guess I was kind of neutral to it. It never really bothered me until she made the new recipe and I found myself, while sitting at my desk working on a reading assignment, suddenly struggling to reach the wastebasket before I began heaving.

The aroma was simply overpowering, and it completely filled the house. My dad was praising my mom's cooking skills when he smelled it, while I was retching when I did.

So yeah, it does sound crazy. And, at first, my mom thought it was precisely that. Some sort of psychological issue, prepubescent rebellion, or whatever. She didn't believe such a thing was possible, so she tested me.

My brother (older by two years) stood with me in the living room. In the kitchen, completely out of view, she opened up a random jar of ground spice or dried herb, wafted her hand over it a few times, then put it away. He and I walked through the kitchen. I could smell the oregano before I got closer than six feet from where she was standing. Camp smelled nothing even after he picked up the closed jar.

Same result with cinnamon, vanilla extract, nutmeg, and coriander, though I only knew the names of a few of them. I mean, what unpracticed ten-year-old would know anything about cumin or sage? When I was able to prove it was real, she got really worried.

Then came a barrage of doctors' appointments as they tried to diagnose me with something they could fix. None could. The final diagnosis was termed benign idiopathic hyperosmia .

Idiopathic? Maybe. Benign? Hardly.

My family, through fitful and often frustrating trial and error, learned to avoid or eliminate the odors of particular foods, toiletries, detergents, whatever, which I simply could not handle without having to go outside for fresh air. I could smell things no one else would. Like opening a jug of milk. Most people don't notice the sour smell along the threads of the lid, even though the contents of the carton is fresh and tasty. I do, though, so I have to hold my breath when I pour a glass.

Fantastically delicious aromas could become overpoweringly strong. And, considering ninety percent of what we perceive as flavor is actually aroma, it made otherwise appealing foods inedible to me sometimes.

Jeez. I mean, I love them all to death, and I felt horrible because they had to deal with accommodations for me.

My condition reached its peak during middle school.

Imagine being crammed into classrooms with twenty-plus kids who barely cared to manage their personal hygiene, let alone do so impeccably. Now imagine being forced to walk through the boy's locker room for gym class. I'm sure every single person would find the aroma less than inviting, whether occupied or not. But I'd become green around the gills after mere seconds, and there was no way I could hold my breath for the ten minutes needed to change clothes. I became pretty good at holding it long enough to visit a urinal, though, but it also meant I chose not to drink much water during a school day so I wouldn't need to.

It wasn't just the guys. Walking past the doors to the girls' locker room wasn't any better. Sugar and spice? My ass.

Eventually, l had to leave school. "Distance learning" is another term everyone now knows. The problem was, back then, there was no motivation for the district to equip my classrooms with cameras or audio feeds. I know it would've cost a fortune.

My parents weren't professional educators. They both worked full-time jobs. So, for those years, all I did each morning was check my email where teachers would send me their lesson plans and assignments. Since I wasn't able to hear lectures or discussions, the burden was on me to teach myself the material.

I'll say I actually did pretty darned good. I graduated in the top 26% of my class, with a 3.17 GPA. Yeah, it wasn't stellar, but I was sure it was the highest GPA of any student who'd never been on the high school's campus.

All the corona crap started right before graduation, and I wasn't confident I could manage starting at a new college while still remote, so my parents supported my decision to take a gap year.

A little more context might help.

There was a movie which came out decades before I was born called "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble." I learned of it before I moved to home schooling because the schoolyard bullies would call me "Bubble Boy." I can only guess their folks had done them the "favor" of introducing them to the movie.

A favorite prank was to toss one of those rotten egg scented "stink bombs" near me, which would immediately provoke a very uncomfortable regurgitative reflex if I happened to be anywhere downwind of it.

Though I certainly had no life-protecting need to live in a bubble as the subject of the movie had, there were times it would have been convenient. The point is, I did feel as lonely and isolated as the person in that show. Most of my friends were dating and had girlfriends. I'd not been on one single date in my life.

I craved beyond measure doing some university visits, and my folks finally capitulated and allowed me to visit, in person, both the community college as well as the nearby state school during the slightly eased-up lock-down.

I went to the county's community college first, and I quickly realized I needed to adjust the way I walked—rather, the path. I don't know how to say it, but when people walked in front of me, I could sometimes detect certain things in the air they'd passed through.

I remember walking behind a trio of sophomores who were leading the tour with me and eight or nine others following them. I caught an aroma. Several, actually.

The dude on the left? No. Oh, hell no. He smelled like his body spray was ordered in bulk. I moved to my right. I knew it was a particular time in that student's lunar cycle. It wasn't an unfamiliar thing, just—it didn't matter. I moved over again.

Oh, my gosh, what the hell ? I found myself thinking.

"Okay, potential newbies," the girl said, "this wing of Building A holds our…"

I couldn't pay any attention.

I heard but didn't comprehend her words. All I'm willing to admit is how I followed directly behind her for the remainder of the tour because the air she was walking through… oh. It was very, very… I'll just say it was pleasant, and I wasn't quite sure why.

"How 'bout you, Shortcut?"

"Uh—Shortcut ? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't asked a single question."

"Actually, I do have a couple."

"Finally," she said with a chuckle.

Her easygoing laughter? It was even better than the air she'd moved.

"Yeah. So, what's the current enrollment, and what are the drop and hire rates?"

"This year, there are about twenty thousand students across the three campuses. Last year's drop rate was barely eighteen percent, and the hire-at-completion rate was thirty-seven.

"That last figure might sound very low, but allow me to explain. By enrollment, this is the largest community college in the state, and we partner with every state university as well as some private ones. The partnership guarantees all credits earned here will transfer to approved bachelor's degree plans there. All the same classes at a fifth of the tuition, so most students aren't yet looking for jobs when they leave. Those who are usually find one, so the denominator is large, but the numerator is small."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. It was a good question. Anything else before we walk over to Building B?" she asked the group.

I made sure I stayed in her path. Ten feet behind her seemed the best distance.

I knew the name of the perfume she wore because one of those sample insert cards had been in the junk mail sent to our house. Even though I didn't open it, I could still smell it when I tossed it in the garbage. It was, surprisingly, a very pleasant and light scent, and the name stuck in my head. And that it wasn't overpowering on the gal ahead of me meant she knew how to apply it sparingly, unlike the dork on the far left who apparently liked to wallow in Axe.

I remained wordless throughout the remainder of the tour. There were a few parts where I had to stay behind, particularly the science labs. Sulfur, ammonia, butyric acid, and formaldehyde are not at all pleasant, and I refused to take the risk.

"What's going on with you?" my favorite guide asked, noticing I'd lagged a hundred feet and stayed in the main corridor until the group returned.

"It's a long story."

"Well, try to keep up," she said as we walked toward the final building. I had no problems keeping up because my eyes easily tracked the incredibly pretty butt tucked into some incredibly nice-fitting jeans. It moved hypnotically as she walked with long strides. After the trio had shown off the final highlights, people began to walk back to their cars.

"Hey," she said, "you kind of look familiar. Did you happen to go to C. L. Dalton High?"

"Well, sort of. I was technically enrolled there, but I never went."

She laughed. It was a cute laugh. "Okay, I don't get it. How does that work?"

"You know how people are doing remote schooling now? Well, I had to do the learn from home thing for years because I can't function in crowds and classrooms and stuff."

"Yet you're planning on attending here in person next year?"

"Yeah. Well, either here, or the state university. I have a medical condition, but I've been enrolled in a clinical trial my parents and I are really hoping might work."

"Do you mind if I ask what it is?"

"It's a long name. Benign idiopathic hyperosmia. It means I can—"

"Smell everything?" she interrupted.

My eyes widened in surprise. "Are you a Latin Studies major?"

"No. Nursing school or premed. I haven't decided yet. Since most of the core is the same for both, I'm doing the two-year stuff here because it's a pittance in tuition compared… never mind. So yeah, the Latin is obvious since the opposite has been in the news a lot," she observantly concluded. "What's it like to be able to smell really good?"

"You'd have to tell me. Do I smell really good?"

"Oh, you're quick," she humorously groaned. "You know what I mean."

"It's annoying. The cologne or whatever the dude helping with the tour was wearing made my sinuses burn. A mask sometimes helps, but not always, and definitely not against what he doused himself with. It can be really bad at times. Even things which most people think smell nice can be overwhelmingly strong and unpleasant. Roses for example. To me, they're just too sweet-smelling. But, for other things, if I'm around them enough, they get better."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Coffee," I said when the thought immediately sprang to mind. "I used to love the smell of coffee, and after this condition hit me, I couldn't be on the first floor of the house while the brewer was running in the kitchen. All I could smell was how bitter it was. Now it's back to smelling good again. I could tell you were sipping on Pike Place with honey in it, and you're wearing just a small hint of Sienna. A small hint."

She chuckled. "That's incredible. A little creepy, but still incredible."

She stared at me for a few seconds. "Oh! I think I recognize you! You're Finn! Camp's brother!"

"Yep," I answered.

"I remember you from when we were all at Susan Meyers Elementary," she said, looking me over. "You're so tall, and your voice is different!"

I laughed. "Well, sure. That was years ago. Puberty and everything."

She grinned. At least, I think she did. The face-covering she was wearing hid her nose and mouth, but genuine smiles are evident in the eyes.

"Hey, would you mind taking off your mask?" she asked.

I didn't mind her request, though I did take a few steps back to add more space.

She grinned. "You're a heck of a lot cuter than Camp. Don't tell him I said that."

She removed her own and a memory immediately flashed in my mind. I struggled to recall her name.

"Mindy," I grunted, snapping my fingers while searching my brain for her last name, "Mindy, Mindy, um… uh… Mindy Boone?"

She laughed. "Yeah! So, you recognize me, too?"

"Barely! Jeez. It's so good to see someone familiar. I hardly ever get to much anymore. Um… wow . This has been the highlight of my week, or month even. You look really, really good. It's great to see you again."

"It's been years. You, too, Finn." She smiled brightly. "Hey, um, the next tour starts in ten minutes, and I've got to get back to Building A to meet another group. Do you think we could meet up some time? I'd really like to catch up."

And I'd really like to smell her scent again I thought to myself. It had disappeared, probably because the slight breeze was coming from the side as we faced each other.

"I'd like that, too," I answered.

"You ready for my number?"

"Yep," I said, then tapped it into my phone. I sent her a text so she could create a contact for me as I would for hers.

"I'll chat you later, and we can figure out something. Sound good?"

"For sure," I said, giving her a smile as I began heading to my car.

After a few paces, I looked over my shoulder hoping to catch another glimpse of her incredibly pretty butt, but I caught her watching me walking away.

"Hey," I said to my brother when he was done with his last daily class at home. "Guess who I ran into today?"

"Who?"

"Mindy Boone," I said, wondering if it'd pop his memory.

"Seriously? She's such a freaking prima donna ."

"Ouch. What the hell?"

"Yeah, dude. I asked her out like a half dozen times, and she waved me off, like every single time."

"Why does that make her a prima donna ?"

"Everyone should 'Camp' out at least once," he said, air-quoting his name.

"You're such a douche-bag!" I laughed. "Maybe your attitude right there is why. Anyway, she wants to meet up and reminisce. I was going to ask if you wanted to come, too, since you know each other, but I guess I know the answer to that."

"Did she ask about me?"

"Well…" I said with some hesitation, "no."

He scoffed, shaking his head derisively.

My phone bleeped. I looked at the text.

"Ah. It's her. I've gotta take this." I grinned to ruffle his feathers, then went back to my bedroom.

Mindy and I texted back and forth and agreed to meet in a "safe place," both in the sense of the distancing requirements, and a place which wouldn't likely trigger any olfactory overloads. We decided we'd meet two days later at a nearby park, bringing our own lunches. We'd eat sitting on opposite corners of a picnic table, six-plus feet apart.

After we'd eaten, we masked back up and walked the bike trail around the perimeter of the park to continue our conversation. Masking meant we could walk closer together without people jogging or biking between us as we talked.

"I told Camp a few days ago that we bumped into each other," I said as we began walking.