Yesterday, when walking to my office, I noticed a sweet smell. ‘Pipe tobacco…’ I thought. I smiled as I waited for the walk signal, thanking the city for the images of Sherlock Holmes and fireplaces it was planting in my mind, but chalking the smell up to the mysterious whiffs that often blow through, like the bergamot I wrote of a few weeks ago.
Great was my surprise when there arrived beside me a grey old man, dark from time spent at excavations, lean from sitting in libraries, and smoking a deeply curved pipe. It’s true, we’ve got all kinds in the city.
I smelled the pipe again today, and silent greeted The Professor with an averted smirk as he stood beside me, waiting for the walk signal.
Urban, Ever After. 