The smell hit him first. Before the door even opened.
Mint.
Sharp. Clean. Cutting through the cab's stale fog of old smoke and sweat.
His head snapped up. Heart a trapped bird. Ribs a cage.
The door opened. A woman got in. Not her. Never her. Younger. Hair dyed light brown. A puffy coat. "Shibuya station, please."
Her voice was wrong. Higher. Lighter.
But the smell. It poured off her. A cloud of it. Gum. Or candy. Or lip balm. Artificial. Sweet. But still mint.
Kenji couldn't move. His hand was frozen on the gear shift.
"Hello? Shibuya?"
He nodded. A jerky motion. Put the car in drive. Pulled out. His hands were slick on the wheel.
The smell filled the cab. Colonized it. Pushed out every other smell. It was in his nose. His mouth. His lungs. He was breathing her in. A ghost scent. A weapon.
He cracked his window. Cold air rushed in. Didn't help. The mint came with it. Stronger.
He saw the rooftop. Not a memory. A flash. A bolt behind his eyes. The blue hour. Her offering the white candy. Better?
His knuckles were white. He was choking. On air. On memory.
"You okay?" the girl asked from the back. Chewing. The sound was tiny. Wet. It echoed in his skull.
"Fine," he grunted. The word was gravel.
He drove. The streets were a blur. He took a wrong turn. Added five minutes. Didn't care. He just needed the ride to end. Needed the smell out of his cab.
But he also wanted to drive forever. With this ghost smell. This proof that mint still existed in the world. That it wasn't just a fossil in his brain.
"You drive a lot?" she asked. Trying to be friendly.
"Yeah."
"Must be boring."
"Yeah."
Silence. Just the chewing. The mint smell.
He was shaking. A fine tremor in his legs. In his gut. He was going to be sick.
"My boyfriend says I should get a car," she said. Unwrapping another piece. The crinkle of plastic. A fresh wave of scent. "But the train is easier, you know?"
He didn't answer. He was fifteen. On a roof. The taste of mint and ash mixing on his tongue. A new flavor. The only flavor.
He missed a light. Braked hard. The girl lurched. "Whoa. Seriously, you okay?"
"Fine." He was sweating. Cold sweat. Under his arms. Down his back.
He could ask. The question burned his tongue. What kind of mint is that? Stupid. Insane. He bit down on it. Tasted blood.
Finally. The station. Bright lights. Crowds.
He pulled to the curb. "Here."
She handed him cash. "Keep the change." Opened the door. The mint smell started to leave. Followed her out.
He couldn't let it.
"Wait." The word jumped out.
She turned. One foot on the curb. "Yeah?"
He stared. His mouth open. Nothing came out. What was he doing? He was a fifty-year-old man. In a dirty cab. Asking a stranger about her gum.
"Your… gum," he managed. "What… what brand?"
She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. A creep. A weirdo. "Uh. Just regular. Cool Mint. Why?"
Cool Mint.
A name. A brand. A thing you could buy at any store. Not a magic spell. Not a time machine. Just gum.
"No reason," he mumbled. Looked away.
She left. Slammed the door. The mint smell was still there. Weaker. But there. Lingering in the fabric of the seats. In the air.
He sat. Engine idling. People flowed past the windows. A river of strangers.
He put his forehead on the steering wheel. The plastic was cool.
Cool Mint.
He'd chased a smell for twenty-seven years. And it was just a flavor. A cheap candy. A piece of gum a stranger chewed.
He'd built a cathedral in his head. And it was just a brand name.
The laugh that came out of him was ugly. A dry heave. A sob.
He drove. The cab still smelled of her. Of mint. It would for hours. Maybe days. He'd breathe it in. This cheap, ordinary ghost.
He was a driver. Driving in circles. Chasing a flavor sold in convenience stores.
The joke was on him. And it wasn't funny.