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A boy sitting under a tree, thinking. A tree lending its shade to a boy. A squirrel, minding its own business.
This is what the scene smelled like: a green, fresh smell, like cold lettuce, a crisp texture to the air, unusual for the desert. Undertones of musky fur, of nuts, of fruits and of dirt. Of small rocks inhabited by smaller insects, which carried no smell at all. At least none detectable by a human nose. It smelled like a childhood that will one day be forgotten by the adult who lived it, but is being, right now, experienced in its entirety. It smelled like sand, and earth, and gravel. It smelled nice; all things considered. The boy took these smells in, then let the breath out slowly, letting go of the scent before breathing in once more, and repeating that for as long as he could, which would be much longer than he expected.
He thought a lot, the boy. He was often told not to, and he often did so anyway. His mother would tell him “Cecil, you do not need to think. You are destined to speak, to use your voice. The stars have written your story as one of narration. So do not waste yourself on philosophy, do not let your mind wander where you can find it no longer.” He never knew what she meant. He always knew she meant something. He thought about thinking, and he thought about knowledge. It is a cursed thing, knowledge, especially in a town like his. Those who knew were punished, and those who did not know were blissfully ignorant to it. He was scared of knowing, and he was scared of not knowing. He was scared of a lot of things, most of them he thought about then.
He thought about a story his mother would tell him, one about a boy who wanted to know everything, and then he did. He looked up at the cool leaves of the tree as he thought about the story. He thought about what it might be like to be a tree, to have insects crawling inside you and birds sitting atop your branches. To see the world through wooden eyes. He was glad he was a boy, and not a tree. Another breath, taking in the smells. Another exhale, releasing the smells again. He was strangely aware of his own breathing, and he thought about that too.
He thought about the future, about getting a job. His mother told him everyone already knew his job, a radio host. He didn’t mind that. He liked the radio. He would sit down every evening and listen to Leonard’s broadcast before bed. He thought he would enjoy being in his place, and he was correct. He thought about love, and who he might fall in love with. He’d had the occasional school crush, yes, but he knew that it was unlikely he would end up with any of them in the long run. He knew there was different kinds of love, and he knew he loved many things. He loved his mother, no matter how cryptic she could be, he loved his sister, he loved the sound of the radio, he loved sitting under trees and taking in smells. One day he’d love a cat, floating in a station bathroom. He’d love a scientist, perfectly imperfect. He’d love a son, and a niece, and a town, and all the people in it.
But right now, he was a boy, sitting under a tree, thinking. He ran his hands through the sand, making sure to feel every grain under his fingertips. One day he’d sit under a tree again and run his hands through slightly older sand. Another breath. Another exhale. He stood up, slowly, and walked to his house. He knew his mother was calling him, though he could neither see nor hear her, not it the traditional sense. That night he sat by his window, looking up at the sky, watching the moon, which he had been told was fake, yet which he still found beautiful, and the mysterious lights passing overhead, and the sky, mostly void, partially stars. He smiled to himself, and then he drifted off to sleep.
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A man sitting under a tree. Another man sitting beside him. A tree lending it’s shade to two men. A butterfly fluttering past.
This is what the scene smelled like: nostalgia. Like an old memory. Like déjà vu. It had a calmness to it, a heaviness in the air, viscous to breathe. It smelled like smothering, like suffocation. It smelled like home. it smelled like love, like adoration between two people, so very different yet united in their fondness for one another. It smelled like a childhood long forgotten, yet the memory still somehow stored in some deep recess of the brain. It smelled like sand. It smelled like maturity, like an adult remembering things from his childhood he had forgotten.
The man took in a breath, holding it for a moment. He let go of the breath, slowly. The other man mirrored his breathing. The first man, whose name was Cecil, and who had once been a boy, sitting under a tree, thinking, closed his eyes, and he let the world take him for a moment. He thought about when he was a boy, back when he thought about so many things. He still enjoyed thinking, less so knowing, though that was natural in a place like Night Vale. Not everyone wanted to be ignorant, but most of those citizens were aprehended by secret police. He didn't mind those citizens. After all, he had married a man whose job was to know, to think. His name was Carlos, and he took in the smells too. He wasn’t good at feelings, at abstract description. He could tell you the chemical makeup of a scent but not why it made him feel a certain way. He took in the smells anyway.
Cecil ran his fingers through the sand, fiddling with the individual grains. He let his fingertips register every tiny pebble, every bit of dry grass and every little twig in the ground. Carlos took one now sandy hand in his own, and he smiled. He wasn’t sure if Cecil saw it, but he didn’t mind either way. The radio hosts eyes opened slowly, and they narrowed almost immediately, a reflex due to the bright desert sun. Inhale. Exhale. A head on a shoulder, one person gently leaning against another. A light kiss to sandy hair, still beautiful and perfect, as it always was and always will be. Inhale. Exhale. Rhythmic and soothing. Inhale. Exhale.
The two got up not long after, slowly, and walked home hand in hand. They ate and talked and laughed and shared humorous anecdotes from life. One hand on another, fingers gently brushing one another. A shared smile at the domesticity of the moment.
That night they both stood by their window, looking up at the night sky, mostly void, partially stars. Inhale. Exhale. A shared breath. Then they went to bed. A warm bed, cozy and soft. A kiss goodnight. Closed eyes. Dreams.
Inhale. Exhale.