Tuesday, March 24, 2020
He's already reminded me to watch my pace. And I've reminded him to get the spots under his wedding band.
"Ah," he says, "Another peril of marriage."
He bumps my hip with his.
Our soap smalls like basil or maybe parsley or cranberry or jasmine or lavender. In every room, in a dish, or pumped from a bottle, the manufactured smells of out of doors.
In the actual out of doors, nature cranks up Spring.
Mock orange, eucalyptus, mown grass and, last night, like a breath blown all the way from my 1970s childhood: fluid and hamburgers and cigarette smoke.
These communal smells conjured forbidden gestures.
The sharing of lit tobacco from lip to lip.
Unwashed hands brushing.