‘At the Station’ by Imogen Forster
At the Station For a moment, the sharp smell of roasting coffee is like tobacco, a time when the air in public places floated carcinogenic blue and men in overalls, forebears of the two who are passing me now, would give off a dark industrial reek, as if they were fume-pickled. One of them could be my Grandpa, the dry, pencil-shaving sweat-scent of his flannel … Continue reading ‘At the Station’ by Imogen Forster