Tar

I'm sitting in Core, two minutes before the end of class. Woolfolk is walking the class through an analysis of Camus' The Stranger. A faint smell of tar pervades the classroom, a strange thick perfume I feel with every third breath. The class shifts in their seats. I wonder what it smells like outside.

I'm not thinking about Camus. I'm thinking about warmth, and walking barefoot along asphalt roads, clutching my shoes in one hand and my towel in the other.