Sepia

Image courtesy of Chris Button here

The overwhelming colour of orange attacked my irises as I walked along the bridge. Orange from the sinking ball of fire, tinting the sky a dirty shade of copper as it refracted off the dust in the air. The yellow-orange from the headlights of cars passing by bathed me in a spotlight of over-exposed sepia as they drove past, their car horns cutting through the music from my headphones at irregular intervals.

The air was warm and violent as the cars raced by, providing my locks with an excuse for its bad hair day. I inhaled, noting the mixture of salt, sea breeze, exhaust and heated steel, a smell I was familiar with. It reminded me of grandpa who used to work as a maintenance man for the bridge. He always used to smell of grease, exhaust from all the cars that went by and the salty harbour that the bridge crossed.

I’d come here often and watch as the sky turned from blue to pink to purple to black. But today the sky was gold. Like grandpa’s work and sun beaten hands and his favourite colour; a burnt ochre that reminded him of the red desert. I would come here often and forget about the cars speeding past, the light fading fast and just take in the smells. I’d come here often because it smelt like grandpa.