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Not Just an Interlude
Burning asphalt, the sun relentlessly heating it. The smell of tire rubber, and that specific scent of the interior of my rental car.
Yes, Interlude Man catapults me into vacation. Right to a shady parking lot surrounded by pine and fir groves somewhere by the Mediterranean. The peculiar smell of the heat that brings the interior of our rental car to life. The dashboard, the steering wheel, the upholstery. And then the tires. The rubber in the heat, how it connects with the asphalt. This heavy odor might be the interlude on this light summer day. But Interlude Man is more than just a little interlude. He is the prelude. For a grand evening, a dinner, an opera. For me, however, he is a window into a long-forgotten world, somewhere under pines near the Mediterranean, through which I wander again as soon as Interlude Man envelops me with his scent.
