The Smell of Something Like Love

*

His skin smelled like a spice rack, absorbed the vapors from his mother’s cooking into his flesh and hair. I loved the way I could inhale him into me, a faint hint of cumin, ginger and chili powder with undertones of coconut from the lotion he used to feed his dry skin. I always knew if he was approaching or if he had just left a space from the scent he left behind. But in his house, I couldn’t distinguish him from the atmosphere. He surrounded me completely.

“Sweet pea….” My tone of voice and open-ended beckoning would get him. I traced the outline of his ear with my red painted fingernail, reminding me of a chocolate covered cherry, the red against the brown like that.

“Yes. I’ll make you Chia. Or do you want me to ask my mom to make us some?” He snapped at my knuckles with his teeth. He was ticklish behind his ears.

*

I let him pour into me like molasses, slow, rich, and consuming. And I liked saying it, rolling around in my mouth, letting it stick to my soft palate. When I spoke of him to others I’d hope to have to repeat it when it seemed as if some suspected I’d stumbled over my words, or perhaps that they’d heard wrong. But I loved to say it again, more audibly, more pronounced so I could taste it; make it mine and hold in close in my chest.

*

The door of the coffee shop has hinges that rub against each other and cry out from the constant ins and outs. The door bangs against the wooden frame as it closes every few minutes and my wander to the open room to my right. The chair has a purple ink mark on the light fabric, a sign that I had been there before, clumsy with my pen.

The door whines against the sound of heavy heeled footsteps on the wooden floor and pen in my hand stops for the first time in twenty minutes. He is rawboned and stands in front of the counter looking up at the suspended espresso menus above the gleaming machines. The overhead lights refract off of the lenses of his oblong glasses, no frames, sleek against his clean-shaven, amber face. He senses someone observing, the way you do when you feel someone’s eyes on the base of your neck. The man shifts his focus away from the menus for a moment; turning is head slightly in the opposite direction from where I am sitting, doesn’t realize it is me who is taking him in, and goes back to the menu, encircling his chin in his hand his thumb moving across the length of his jaw, wondering if he really needs more caffeine in his system. The combination of steamed milk and oily espresso swirling in my mug resembles the color of the skin on his neck and cheeks

I want to step in line behind this stranger, close enough to pick up his scent, find out if he smells like the mornings when I used to wake up with him beside me, his arm draped over my shoulder, the smell the left over cologne, spice and coconut milk scent on the soft underside of his wrist rousing me. Sometimes I woke him by nibbling on that small area of flesh, wanting it to taste like he smelled. Would this man smell like him? Or would the aroma of chili powder be more pronounced? Maybe tangy off-sweetness of ginger would be lacking or perhaps this stranger smells like Chia made from his mother’s, his naani’s recipe, with warmed heavy cream and a dab of honey. Maybe he doesn’t have a scent at all, masks it with aftershave like most men, leaving me wondering who has inhaled him before, nose to skin. Hot breath on flesh.

*

I put water on boil, chose an apple from the refrigerator and thought of his mother, her stern manner as severe as the tight braid, pulling the skin around her eyes taught. Her hands move in choppy rhythms as she severs the apples into slices, arranging them on a plain white china plate the color of her fingernails against her brown skin. I took a hold of his wrist with her back to me. Her shoulders arch and she pauses over the cutting board. He shakes his wrist free before she turns around to present us with a snack.

*

The plate sits on top of a dark wooden nightstand. Looking past my bare shoulder at the browning left over pieces, the china reminds me of her nails against the dark skin of her callused fingertips. And now I am lying unclothed in her bed. In their bed, with leftover pieces of fruit turning from pale to brown. My flesh smells like her, like smoldering orchids and ginger.

*

And like the scents that stayed, penetrated in my skin, soon they washed away with time, forgotten whispers..he taught me that love has a taste