A fictional account of meeting my mortal enemy on the London underground.

Mortal enemy perfume

Entering the underground I catch a whiff of your scent, $80 a bottle.  An obscene thing for a man.  It makes my muscles tense, but I force myself to take deep breaths, imagine it's someone else wearing that nauseating perfume, make an attempt to associate that smell with someone else.  But, then I see your short hair, your glasses framed face, your skin bronzed by your hometown's wearisome insistence on year round sunshine.  You notice me too, almost simultaneously,  and the dance of mortal enemies begins.  A sideways glance and a brief contemplation of should I acknowledge and then, yes, and you do too.  A slight nod, but nothing more.  And then you are gone and that wave of everything  I have ever done before this moment that has put me here comes sweeping in.  How much did I learn from you and our subsequent denouement?  Where in the future does this tired dance end?  Who is the stronger one that says enough?  I have seen your face before, and it looked at me with love, didn't it?  Then you said you'd like to rip my teeth out - words so filled with fury I've chosen them alone to put on the epitaph of our friendship.

Nicole - not my mortal enemy, in fact, quite the opposite.

And the carriage on the underground that separates our bodies is a hollow place.  I sit down and cannot eat my sandwich.

Luckily, this never happened and I, in fact, do not have a mortal enemy.