I remember that evening through smells. The wind was warm and stubborn, chasing clouds over the rooftops, while somewhere in a courtyard lilacs were blooming. Until that day I had never imagined that their scent could make your head spin. Or…?

But back then I didn’t know that yet. I was still riding the metro, standing, holding the handrail, squeezed on both sides by strangers’ bodies. The carriage bounced lightly on the rails, muttering: “Tadam-tudam, tadam-tudam, tadam-tudam.” The air smelled of exhaustion, unfulfilled dreams, the desire to conquer the world, and a mad cocktail of cheap perfume, dust, and sweat.

Yet it felt wonderful all the same. I stared at my reflection in the black window and thought about her. Nothing dramatic; I wasn’t rehearsing a detailed date plan or sharpening witty lines like d’Artagnan before meeting Milady de Winter. Still, her image hovered over me, having flown through layers of earth and concrete, and I caught another scent. Her scent. Illusory, soaking every thought of her. Soothing and arousing at once. I watched my reflection melt into a smile. A foolish, happy smile of anticipation. Soon I would see her. Two more stops.

The train slowed, and through the shuffling crowd I spotted her standing at the far end of the platform, exactly in the middle between the two tracks. People flowed past her in both directions, parting around her fragile figure. Someone crossing for a transfer blocked my view for a moment, but her flickering silhouette amid the chaotic motion of bodies pointed the way like a lighthouse. I wanted to shove everyone aside and run. I restrained myself. I stepped out of the carriage and walked calmly.

She started smiling the instant she picked me out of the crowd. At first her lips only trembled, but by the time I reached her she was beaming, joy unconcealed. Then she said:

“Hi.” And immediately spun on her heel and hurried toward the exit. I followed. We moved with the crowd like two strangers, weaving, dodging collisions with others just as eager to reach the surface: the sun, the scent of lilac. Each other? For me, definitely the moment when we could finally walk side by side without anyone getting in the way of looking at her.

We emerged and immediately turned into a side street. I took her hand.

She wore a milkshake-colored blouse with some silly ruffles or flounces (I never learned the difference) and pale blue jeans. She walked placing one foot precisely in front of the other, eyes fixed on the toes of her shoes as if laying out solitaire on the pavement. The foamy lace fluttered, now revealing, now modestly concealing the top of her breasts in the not-too-deep neckline. Those rises and falls hypnotized me in some strange way; I couldn’t look away. And suddenly, surprising even myself, I said:

“You’re beautiful.”

She jerked her head up, searching my face.

“Really?” She missed a step when our eyes met. She stopped, still staring, and I can still feel that gaze brushing my skin. Her lips trembled and parted slightly as her eyes slid down to my mouth, and I lost it. My hand flew up, cupped her face, caressing and drawing her in at the same time. She rose on tiptoe, reaching…

And ducked under my arm, taking a step forward.

“You…” She glanced back and smiled. “You too.”

Her heels clicked on the asphalt again, scattering my thoughts, confusing me, carrying her away. I caught up and walked beside her. Then she spoke:

“You know, I don’t want you to get a big head.” She smiled without taking her eyes off the road ahead. “But today, when I saw you stepping out of the metro car… I just… Anyway, I like you.”

“What exactly did you like? The moment I stepped out?” I teased, relaxing.

“I don’t know… the whole thing. Your silhouette.”

“I like your silhouette too. I mean, not only the silhouette,” I laughed. “Everything else as well.”

“And what’s ‘everything else’?”

“Everything. Arms, legs, eyes, hair… You know what I mean.”

Suddenly she did a clumsy ballet pirouette, stumbled, and almost fell. I caught her. Her eyes were inches from mine; her lips at the distance of a kiss. I didn’t want to rush. I breathed her in, memorizing her scent, while my own eyes reflected in her widening pupils. She sighed, a blush flooded her cheeks, and with her fingertips against my chest she gently pushed me away.

Her heels started clicking again, keeping time with our hearts. We walked without touching and said nothing.

“You know what my mom said?” she asked quietly.

“What?”

“That I should probably marry a nice guy someday.”

I stopped, inhaled deeply, and in one quick step took both her hands in mine, suddenly angry. Leaning close to her ear, almost brushing it with my lips, I whispered:

“Sweetheart, people don’t get married just because someone liked a silhouette or because Mom said so. When you meet the man who’s really yours, your knees will buckle from a single glance. And with me you won’t even kiss.”

I let go of her hands, took one last deep breath of her scent mixed with lilac, and stepped back.

“I have to go.”

She stood with her head lowered, staring at her shoes. Only after I turned and took a few steps did she whisper, barely audible:

“Call me anyway.”

I never called, drunk on the depth of my own “understanding of life.” If I had understood anything about life back then, I would have acted differently. At the very least I wouldn’t have sulked trying to prove a point. The present-day me would simply have waited and pushed the moment a little harder. But as Otto von Bismarck said, history knows no “ifs.” On the other hand, I’m not exactly eager to be option B.

Either way, every year when the lilacs bloom, her silhouette flickers somewhere among the purple clusters. My head spins a little, and the sweetish scent makes me slightly nauseous.