Perfumery (with apologies to Raymond Queneau)

The stench of traffic rises through the air as the S bus, with its aroma of worn-out diesel and tired tyres, rolls into its stop. Wending its way through the inconsiderate rush-hour traffic it slowly lurches until stationary, like a sweating runner. Inside the bus it smells warm, not like baking bread or a summer's day but warm like purgatory: not quite the pits of hell, but with all dying to get off and rush out into the paradise of the floral spring air that rushes alongside the bus' windows and doors.

A guy gets on the bus, smelling of Hermès aftershave. A little pretentious, perhaps a Fougère fragrance that borrows from all the scent families: wood, flowers, fruit, the Orient. He's about 26, and even his hair smells like it's ready for the day. He's wearing a felt hat, with a cord tied around it instead of a ribbon, and he has a long neck. His clothes smell like they haven't been ironed for a while.

There's a sigh of relief and a rush of breeze as the feeling of freshness wafts in to make up for the closeness of the air inside the bus. Not that it lasts for long; plenty of others have piled in along with this other guy. Instead of just putting up with it like everyone else, though, he seems quite rude and patronising, looking down on people as if they aren't worthy of affronting his senses, from physical space to olfactory awareness. He gets aggressive, annoyed at every person who goes past him. He isn't quite complaining at the top of his voice, but he may as well be.

He's standing next to my seat, holding onto the handrail, but even his face annoys me now. I leave behind the warm seat, indented by hundreds of bottoms. He takes it immediately but glowers at me instead of looking even remotely grateful. Whatever. I leave and forget all about him.
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Two hours later, going back on the same bus, we stop at traffic lights near the Cour de Rome, outside Saint-Lazare station. I look around idly, trying to ignore the smells in the bus of beer and overly strong perfume. Longing for air to refresh me all over, I open the window, allowing my nostrils and mouth to drink in the springtime. Just as the bus is about to move away, I notice the same guy again, and his friend is suggesting that he gets an extra button on his overcoat, showing him where (on the lapels) and why. The bus is moving away again now, and he'll probably never cross my path again, and of course I don't know, but I imagine that he and his friend are precise scented replicas, both from the same perfume bottle.