In Person
By A.M. Larks
I never thought I could hate a color until he killed you in your favorite shirt, a magenta silk button-down blouse.
It’s everywhere: the delivery boy’s shoes, the grocery bagger’s hair, the spiral pattern in my office rug, and the make-up counter chair where the saleswoman promises me that they have “the best” water-proof products.
She dabs my face with a sponge. “The area around your eyes is really puffy.” She smells of orchids, like you, but also not. Her smell is aggressively floral, airy, and without balance. You were grounded and smelled of orchids mixed with vanilla, suede, and orange blossom. It was lavish. Dramatic. Seductive. You.
She begins to blend, massaging my cheeks, my chin, trying to erase the pain. I remember how the perfume bonded to your natural musk and I wanted to consume you. Your sweat tasted sweet as my tongue circled your breasts.
“See, you can’t even tell!” she says.
The couple at the flower stand in our neighborhood, they remembered you--remembered us--and gave me the sweet-peas for free.
I am wearing the gray suit, the one with the skirt you liked.
He was sentenced today.
Life.
I wanted to tell you in person.
THE END