Four men, seated on the luxurious leather seats of a black Lexus, were speeding down the highway towards a restaurant reputed to serve the finest fugu in the city.
The place was called "Mon Chéri."
However, the breath of all four men in the car reeked, a consequence of heavy drinking the previous night. It reminded me of the smell our female dog used to bring home during her heat cycle, a scent so potent it would make your nose crooked.
The smell was so strong it made one want to cling to nostalgic memories.
The word "fishy" itself carries nuances, as each person's constitution contributes to the scent.
If one were inclined, one could distinguish four different kinds of "fishy" odors. It's much like expensive perfume; it mingles with the wearer's body odor to create a unique scent, which can sometimes be unpleasant.
Even a £230,000 perfume from the British luxury house Clive Christian, while perhaps pleasant on its own, can turn into an offensive odor depending on the wearer's body chemistry.
At this point, I must strongly urge the wearer to be more self-aware.
You stink.

But back to the car. And to be clear, lest there be any misunderstanding,
this story is purely fictional,
think of it as material for a rakugo tale.
The driver was the company president, a Beatles fan.
In the passenger seat was a self-proclaimed digital photographer.
In the back were a famous inventor and an interior designer. These four.
What's more, two of them had just met, two had met a few times, one had met over twenty times, and one had met over fifty times.
Their relationships were all over the map, making conversation difficult to sustain.
Naturally, some were talking while fiddling with their mobile phones.
Conversations would start abruptly and end just as suddenly, with a "snap."
It was the silence between these "snaps" that was so pungent.
While driving at highway speeds, the exhilaration of the journey might have masked the odor somewhat, but once caught in traffic, the smell became unbearable.

Inventor: Why is the fugu restaurant named "Mon Chéri"?

Interior Designer: It used to be a coffee shop.

President: We should arrive around 8. (On his mobile phone)

Self-proclaimed Digital Photographer: Oh, what's that sign?
Still, it's amazing how many neon signs there are in provincial cities.
Is it an American influence? Haha...

Fwoosh, fwoosh (Sound of the passenger window opening and closing)

Silence



Inventor: Someone must have said "Mon Chéri" to the proprietress.

Interior Designer: It started as a coffee shop, then became a snack bar.

President: We're almost there... (Frantically searching for his phone)

Silence.

For those picturing an early arrival and a celebratory beer toast,
the thought arises:

"Why is it so crowded?"

This subtle stress causes the previously dormant body odor of aging to intensify,
spreading with renewed vigor. The smell is unbearable.
Those with a keen sense of smell will want to avoid this at all costs.

Self-proclaimed Digital Photographer: Oh, is that it? That sign...

He says, opening the car window for a moment, casually.

Self-proclaimed Digital Photographer: Oh, it's just a round sign. How pointless. Haha.

He laughs and quickly closes the window.

It's cold. It's winter, after all.

Stench or Cold

Life is rarely as one wishes.


ps. The fugu prepared by the proprietress of "Mon Chéri" was the most delicious I've ever tasted, and the shiitake mushrooms were enormous and equally delicious. Grateful to be alive. Grateful for friendship.



← Diary-T 165–170