By
Lisabet Sarai
He’d
left it behind when he moved out. Guess the old bathrobe became too
ratty even for his casual tastes. She can’t look at it without
seeing his wiry frame wrapped in the faded plaid flannel, crouched
over his poetry at the kitchen table. Vodka on one side, smoldering
cigarette on the other, close enough to touch, a million miles away.
She
holds it to her face, breathing him in, sweat and tobacco, and
underneath, that elusive musk that first hooked her. Addictive,
intoxicating—in an instant she’s drunk with the astounding lust
that first drew them together. Eyes closed, she relives their
ecstatic frenzy, the clarity of pure connection. In bed they were one
body, obscene and holy. She never cared what they did; every carnal
act felt like a sacrament. The loss of him, of that glory, is a vast,
black, aching wound in her chest.
He’d
felt it, too. Inhaling her female perfume, he lost himself, drowned
in her lushness. Scary. One reason— along with his wanderlust—that
he’s gone.
Chemistry’s
not the same as compatibility.
She
stuffs the rag between her thighs. Eventually the flannel will smell only
of her.
