Small white flowers have opened up at the touch of a sunbeam, tight buds unfurling. Pale, fragile things.

Small white flowers have opened up at the touch of a sunbeam, tight buds unfurling. Pale, fragile things.

A delicate fragrance rises from the bush: jasmine.

They only bloom at dawn -- most of the day, nearby buildings block out the light.

Smell the flowers.

You breathe in jasmine and cold air, soft and thin as hope.

When you were quite small, there was a jasmine plant that trailed over the neighbour's fence. Knowing they could be made into tea, you took a flower and popped it in your mouth one autumn morning.

It tasted like perfume -- floral, bitter. The flavour lingered on your tongue all day.

You blink. An hour has passed. The sunbeam is passing, too.

You inhale deeply, trying to balance the scent on the back of your tongue.

You could build a garland of the small white blooms, wear it in your hair. Trail a path of perfume behind you.

A vast improvement on your current odour.

I'm a grizzled operant on the edge, I don't do whimsy.

You are assaulted suddenly by a mental image of your weary scowl, crowned by a ring of drooping flowers and fruit flies.

Repulsive. But still relaxed.

Despite your efforts, the perfume begins to fade, overtaken by the smells of laundry, diesel, burnt toast, and compost.

That would look nice. I wonder if Melita likes the smell of jasmine...

You could press a sprig between the pages of your report. Let it dry in transit and fall open on her basement desk in Kohila.

The smell of you, for her.

Then, whenever you get zeroed out, she'll have to spend the rest of her life avoiding perfume counters, tea rooms, and community gardens.

Despite your efforts, the perfume begins to fade, overtaken by the smells of laundry, diesel, burnt toast, and compost.

Somewhere, deep, comes a memory:

A suburb of Almina al-Azraq. Green bushes, knee-high, stretch across a plateau. Boys with skirts woven into nets pluck small white flowers from between the leaves, pinching just beneath each bud.

The smell is ecstatic, overwhelming.

As much as 75% of the world's commercial jasmine is produced in this vast field. Children as young as five work alongside their parents, wiping pollen and pesticides from their cheeks.

It's not your memory. Exhale -- breathe the thought from inside you.

Mud-soaked canine groin, leg lifted, as it pisses all over a bed of springy plants. You blink -- the piss hits your face, sours your taste, throwing you out from your pleasant dream among the budding white flowers.

You take a different approach this time -- instead of one big inhale, a series of short, sharp inhales.

Advanced dog technique.

It doesn't make the scent last longer, but it does mingle pleasantly with the ozone in the air, a sort of chilling effect inside your nostrils.

You breathe in, savouring the moment, and feel your shoulders drop in relaxation.

The scent's still there, but the moment's already been spent.

They'll bloom again tomorrow morning, so long as the sun is out.

They smell so nice... maybe this'll help me relax a little.

I don't have time to be mucking about with flowers. [Leave.]

The smell lingers on the street corner behind you.

The jasmine is blooming again.