At that instance, on that day, for the very first time, I felt like October, with its inky snow, has filled me up with hope that November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph.
In his arms, within the folds of my memory, the cursory impressions of the summer were ready grist to my will. He was a simple man, and by simple, I mean painfully classic. He loved the sound of fifteen to twenty people laughing, debating, eating, just breathing in one room. He loved the smells, and steam, the oohs and aahs of delight.
But mostly, he loved the smell of me. I know that, because he told me.
He breathed in every drop of the smell, my smell. He touched it. He knew where to find it and how to follow it. His breath is now confined with the droplets of me–my scent. I could see it in the bottle. My fragrance’s bottle.
It was painful to see: to watch the bottle get emptier and emptier, with every puff; with every blast; with every gust of breath…and wind… It was painful because, this time, he didn’t tell me. He stopped telling me.
I could feel my smell skipping him, and my love, or rather, my interest, getting lost with every single puff of that perfume. All I felt for him was locked in that bottle. I didn’t know then.
Now I do. I would have saved it. I would have placed it in a sealed box, made of glass, so I can glimpse at it every single day. I would have placed it away, in the drawer, up, on my closet, so it can be my last reminder, every morning, and my first adieu, every night…If I only knew… Now. The bottle is empty…and so are his lungs of breath.
Just kidding, he’s perfectly fine, alive and well. Cruel joke I know, but I couldn’t resist taking advantage of the symbolism –and sarcasm– in that sentence.
He’s alive. He’s well. He’s perfect. Or, so I thought. But that didn’t stop his breath from uninhabiting the bottle: splitting away from the droplets of scent… My scent… And that didn’t stop me from emptying the bottle.
I used it all. And I threw it away.