Aftertaste

Jim leaned over the bed to kiss his wife goodbye. She kissed him back and sleepily mumbled something. He smiled as the familiar, subtle taste of cucumbers rippled over his tongue.

Grabbing his briefcase, Jim locked the front door and trotted down the steps. As he approached his neighbor Susan's house, he saw her in her garden preparing to plant new flowers. She knelt with care, the way someone learns to move after a long illness. It was good to see her doing what she loved. As he got closer, a burst of candied apple coated his entire mouth.

"Good morning, Susan," he called to her. "I'm so glad you're having a good day."

"I am. I really am!" She turned to look at Jim. "Wait, how did you know that?"

He chuckled and winked at her.

Before heading to the subway, he had to make an essential stop at his favorite coffee street vendor.

The man behind the cart smiled at him. "The usual? Dark roast, black, extra large?"

"You got it." Jim handed his cash to the vendor and grabbed the cup of bitter salvation. It would be utterly impossible for him to survive his subway commute without it.

Holding his coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other, he jogged down the steps to the underground as waves of people passed by him going up and down the steps. Dozens of threads of flavors weaved across his taste buds: red-hot cinnamon from a woman tottering down the steps in ridiculously high heels, lemon—more furniture polish than fruit—from a man in a business suit, fish market from someone he didn’t see.

It was mildly unpleasant, like a recipe thrown together with random ingredients and no final goal for the meal. The worst-case scenario potluck. But they dissipated quickly as he moved on.

He found a spot to stand on the platform—away from others—as he sipped his coffee to clear his palate to some degree. He mentally prepared himself for the crush of bodies that would be the ride to work. These would not be passing hints, but long-stewing flavors, fermenting on his tongue as he held onto the lifeline of his coffee to cover what he could.

Boarding the subway, Jim sat on a hard plastic seat at some distance from others, but he knew the empty seats would fill in quickly. And they did. Stop after stop, the subway car filled with more people. The mother and daughter sitting to his right weren't too bad. The girl kept flooding his mouth with cotton candy, but her mom was slightly tart—a Granny Smith apple beginning to sour past its prime.

The guy on his left was an issue. He sat folded in on himself. The man didn’t look around or move much at all, except as he dragged a ragged fingernail repeatedly over a scab on the back of his hand. He tasted of decomposition on a hot summer day. Jim took large sips of his coffee so as not to gag.

As the subway car reached capacity, the cacophony of flavors in Jim's mouth was overwhelming. Splashes of hurt, anger, and depression flavored the morning. Jostling to the movement of the car through tunnels, he took larger mouthfuls but kept track of the time left so as not to run out before his stop.

The ride over, Jim climbed the steps from the underground at his office complex. He inhaled deeply a few times in the open air, tossed the empty cup into a trash can, and headed toward his building.

"Good morning!" the receptionist greeted him. "Coffee's fresh."

He smiled at the cheerful woman, as he savored orange creamsicle. "Thank you, Jill." He gave her a grateful smile, beelining straight for the coffeemaker, pouring himself a steaming cup. Though Jill was kind, and a welcome reprieve from the subway overload, he needed to clear her overly sweet tones to concentrate.

Sitting at his desk, he studied his notes for the upcoming meeting. This one was a big deal for the company, and Jim's boss was relying on him to give him insight on the prospective buyer. Fifteen minutes prior to the start of the meeting he set aside his coffee and drank bottled water—he needed to notice every possible nuance of flavor radiating from the buyer.

Jim sat down in the conference room, tasting the spiciness of his boss next to him—an interesting constellation of Mexican seasoning with a strong tang of cilantro. When the buyer walked into the room, his mouth flooded with cooked cabbage overlaid with blue cheese. As the man and his boss spoke, Jim feigned attention to the discussion, but he was actually sorting through the tendrils weaving through the base flavors on his tongue. A hint of aniseed was followed by a building metallic tang of organ meat shot through with soured milk. The taste wasn’t just unpleasant—it was rehearsed.

Jim scribbled a note, handed it to his boss, and stood to excuse himself.

The boss looked at the note: Nothing but deception. His eyebrows rose briefly, then he gave Jim the slight nod that meant understood, no questions. Jim was never wrong.

Deciding to give himself a break after an intense day, Jim took a cab home. The meatloaf and mashed potatoes weren’t bad at all as the driver sang along to songs on the radio.

That evening at home, his wife set the kettle on to boil. Jim watched her select the apple mint tea from the cabinet—she'd learned which blends worked best after days like this. She poured the boiling water over the leaves and let it steep before handing him the cup with a knowing smile. The fragrant steam rose between them, already beginning to work its magic.

Sitting on the couch beside each other, Jim told her about work and the taste of the prospective buyer in the meeting. She didn’t share her husband’s gift, but she enjoyed hearing how he translated different flavors. He sipped his tea with his arm around her, savoring the blend of her natural crisp cucumber self enhanced by the fruity apple mint. Tomorrow he'd face the subway again, but tonight there was only this: cucumber and mint, and peace.

∞