two stroke oil

Monday, 13h of November.
Showered. the teeth brushed, leave the house go on to the corner by the church, it is wet, there is a steady drizzle.
Face the weak breeze blowing up from the river atoehind the town gate at the end of the street. A tiny Italian three wheeled delivery vehicle passes on the road, on the main road, crosses the bridge. It is very loud, for its size, it sounds like a scooter with a defective exhaust.
See the bog cotton man ahead, slowly walking towards the bus stop. As he gets there, he pulls a package of cigarettes from his pocket, takes out a cigarette and lights it.
Just then, a strong smell of two stroke oil, carried by on the light wind. That must have been the noisy little three- wheeler. Then a smell of cigarette smoke, that in the bog cotton mans cigarette. Dolores is approaching, she says good morning, and then a well dressed man with a trolley suitcase. A man on a Monday mission. He is wearing an ornate scarf , striped, silk, and a white shirt.
This is a Monday of strong smells, the long sleep over the weekend has helped the body functions recover from their diffuse state of exhaustion.
The bus arrives, allow the others to board first, and pay the driver.
It is so early in the morning, and still people are up and going to work. All with fixed expressions, some not at all awake yet.
It is dark and wet outside, the tyres of the bus are making such a noise on the wet tarmac pavement at the road.
There is no smoker at the station. hurry through the cafe, get the yellow paper cup., sit at a free table, one with a small rotating metal stool.
Try to write these notes, remember the smell of the two stroke-van's exhaust, and that of the white hair man's early morning cigarette.