For a brief time yesterday, I worked. I ran errands and then went to the library (I just don’t write as well at home; I’m not entirely sure why.) Library Bob was there, in his usual place, with one of the world’s thickest books perched on his lap. Because the lighting seemed a little dim, I chose a table towards the back, where there are plenty of windows; I’m sure Library Bob as able to read just fine without my presence at my usual table.
I dove right into it; usually I have to ponder and muse, read over what I’d written last, then ponder and muse a little more, but yesterday there was a fire lit under my creativity, and the words just poured out.
And then I smelled vinegar.
Not just a whiff; this was as if someone dumped a five gallon bucket all over the floor, where it soaked into the brand new carpet. That the odor arrived along with a guy who sat at the table behind me might have been coincidental. All I know is he sat down and 10 seconds later my senses were flooded with the smell of vinegar.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t unpleasant. I like vinegar. I just don’t expect it in the library.
And it was distracting; my train of thought completely derailed and I found myself oddly hungry. Instead of thinking about how to wrap up a conversation between my main character and a dead guy, I was thinking about a chicken wrap sandwich with vinegar-soaked lettuce and onions. My mouth started watering right along with my eyes.
After five minutes, I gave up. So now I’m trying to muster the energy to get cleaned up and get out of the house, and I’m hoping Vinegar Boy isn’t anywhere near the library today, because frankly, if he is, I’ll wind up headed for Safeway, where I’ll dive head first into a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.
I don’t even like salt and vinegar potato chips.
Now, if someone is there today smelling like donuts, I’m doomed…