Line 2 to Manuel Becerra, written on the back of my French notebook

Man. The guy sitting next to me smells like old sushi. I don't know how else to describe it or how to even further characterize it without at least noting stale rice and stale tofu. And a little bit of soy sauce. It's not pleasant. It's strange, too, because he is so well-dressed. I just looked up and our eyes met in the metro window reflection. Does he think we've just had a moment? Have we just had a moment? All I can think of is sushi. And his curly beard. I should stop staring at his curly beard in the reflection. Imagine if his curly beard was in sushi. I'm burying my chin into my scarf to try and block the smell. Maybe it's not him, maybe it's something I've got stuck in my nose. Someone I know used to stick flowers up her nose and leave them there to fully take in the smell. I just caught a whiff of baby powder with the old man that just hobbled in. Alas, the metro.