Fragrant Remnants.

   I work as a research assistant for University of Waterloo's psychology department. The job involves bringing participants into a small, windowless room to complete tasks relevant to whatever study I'm running. Participants, once in the room, take anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes to complete the study. Suffice it to say, my time with each participant is brief.

   My memory of each participant normally ends as soon as I see them out the door, but frequently, due to a lack of airflow within the building, I'm confronted by an odoriferous reminder of their presence: in the time it takes for the participant to complete their assigned tasks, their smell has filled the small room--a Polaroid snapshot of their aura. Cologne. Sweat. Food. Deodorant. Hair product. Laundry detergent. Outdoors. Organic. Inorganic. Unintentional. I am left with these pieces of people's lives.

   For the small time that the smells linger, before being replaced by another's smells, I wonder what to do with them; I wonder what these smells mean to someone who knows them; I wonder about the story behind them; I wonder about the unintentional intimacy of knowing a stranger's smell.

   Then I remember the intimacy of the smells I do know. Little post-it notes of fragrance and memories.