Scent of a Lover

Posted: June 6, 2014 in Fiction, Short Stories
Tags: , , ,



I remember her smell and I miss it; because it means I miss her. It’s not something that is easy to describe–only experienced. I inhaled that fragrance during our last long hug.  Her face buried in my shoulder.  I didn’t want to let go, ever, but in the end I said good-bye.

I often see images in special people.  Sometimes they come quickly, sometimes never.  Her’s was definitely a star, as bright and glorious as the one that shined for Christ upon his birth. There was something ancient about her but it was cocooned in a shell of dissonance and anti-happiness.  A beautiful light of a bright white star that was hidden, encased in cynicism and self-doubt. She couldn’t and didn’t feel or know what I saw or sensed. She believed only in the facade she offered up for the world to witness. The burnt outer shell needed to be scraped away, dissolved, exposing gleaming facets as polished and reflective as any gem.

It would be a long time until I would see her again and then as a friend, nothing more.

All this said, her smell is what makes me remember her.  Her fragrance is an unknown spice enhancing that which I thought was already sublime. I can taste the tartness of her lips and feel the suppleness of her body, but savoring the scent of her essence eludes me.

I will always love her but that love is but a memory of moments that no longer exist. They have been spent and consumed.

I still think of her on occasion and smile, then close my eyes and try to remember that intoxicating scent.



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