Even though I have stepped on the bus with the sort of headache that always makes my doctor shrug and suggest a houseboy, I can't help but notice that the smell of the man behind me reminds me of a taste I once loved. The memory of that taste, one of Camel lights and bourbon, forces me to remember the feel of a rough thumb tracing the line of my stubborn jaw. If I didn't know just where you were I'd be wondering, but since I do know I'm just sitting there, thinking. But then the middle of my forehead throbs sharply and I remember that I don't actually care, that it's just my confounded tastebuds taking the wheel yet again.
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