Dating : Senseless

Written for Like the Prose 2021

The smell disappeared first. I used to work in the Lush in King’s Cross St Pancras train station. It was a dizzying rush. I would spend all day listening to a musical cycle: splashes and sloshes of soaps washing skin in ceramic bowls, cut by the harsh tones of irate customers, discordant with the soft lilting melodies from the system’s speakers, silhouetted with the crunching electric noise of the trains rushing through the station, and the echoing vibrating cacophony of footsteps and voices as humanity hissed, shouted, clobbered and cackled through their day. The room was a scented workshop of fragrances; soaps and shampoos shimmered in stone sinks modelling their aromas and masking the malodorous patrons who would pass through seeking respite from the stench of the world and deposit their odour at our doors. The sweet-smelling perfumes would cling to me after I would close up the shop and I would carry them home. And then one day, there was nothing, no smell, good or bad. Covid had robbed us of our sense of smell. The soaps took on a new meaning in colour and texture; bright, bubbly spheres effervescing with splashes and explosions of colour: blues, silvers, reds, pinks, lilacs, oranges and verdant greens, shimmering, sparkling and resplendent. The purple velvety soaps smooth to the touch which caressed the skin with it’s cool surface; the rough, raw, rigid washstones which would wetten and weather your calloused hands and feet until they were worn to a newborn nub, a skin polished to perfection. Then the sounds dulled. They did not disappear, but they were bereft of meaningfulness, empty of warmth, passion, anger; words became mere communication. Music was meritless, meaningless, melodies without emotion — a sound to mix with the rest of the noise. Customers looked angry, they looked sad, but they sounded passive, empty and listless. The music stopped; why would it not? The trains continued passing through the station. The footsteps stepped and the voices spoke, but the pleasure and pain of sound was gone. Next, the colours drained, the soaps still nice to the touch, but they were shadows of their former selves. They continued to sparkle and shimmer. They were velvety, smooth, soft, moisturising, milky shades of greys and greys and greys. The shop survived. They still felt nice and people still needed to clean themselves; though times were tough in the little Lush in the station. Staff left of course. Why sell luxury soap in an odorless colourless world? I remained until the feelings stopped. The noiseless room with blocks of cleaning product; uniformly grey, hard to the touch and bereft of smell became sad then, empty, senseless.