On days she stayed out longer—errands, a drink with Maya—he tilted his cheek instead of his mouth. “You’ve been out a while,” he’d murmur, with a trace of apology or irritation—she couldn’t tell. She tasted absence like metal, then laughed it off, because a gentle refusal still counts as gentle. Right?
Unscented pots, jars, and tubes arrived in thoughtful subscriptions: soap, lotion, detergent stamped free of fragrance. Her jasmine perfume moved to a high shelf “for special occasions.” It never quite fit the schedule. “Smell is memory,” he said. “Let’s keep ours clean.” She nodded, secretly grieving the tiny cloud of scent that used to follow her.