The Trouble with Dating

He left his scent behind. It melted into pillows, sheets, and shirts crumpled onto the floor. It even soaked into my skin. Once, I swore, it had made a home in the deepest caverns of my nasal cavity, and that’s where it lived for days. When it finally packed up and moved along, I was lonely. I longed for its return.

It was earthy, mulled, and laced with a cooling effect. It sprang forth strongest when I tickled the surface of his neck, sorta like when I drag my claw tiller across fresh soil. It intoxicated me. Provided a temporary high coupled with its serene, calming effect. I huffed it when it was present. I grew anxious when it disappeared, craving its return. It consumed my thoughts.

Pretty soon, I needed it, day and night. It hung heavy on me when he came ‘round, like a dust cloud, clinging to everything in its path. I quit showering after he left. Washing it down the drain seemed frivolous and risky. When I finally had to succumb—in order to enter the world—I mourned the loss, watching the water disappear down the drain, taking with it the last remnants of that heavenly scent. 

I even started tasting it. Thinking, perhaps, filling another one of my senses with it could provide an even stronger hit. Turns out that was a mistake. Just tasted like chemicals, or opening your mouth wide while walking through a sterile environment and scooping in all the antiseptic compounds until your saliva was pure ethanol. It nearly turned me off the scent, but just for a moment. 

I knew I had a problem when I was shopping for the scent on my own. The few times a week I got a hit were no longer enough. I needed a re-supply in-between visits. If he weren’t there to provide it, I’d drown myself in its mystic aura. I started with a small bottle. That would be enough to keep me going. Soon enough, I was spraying it daily. I was covering everything in my house. I started to wear it myself. Thank God for work-from-home. I could bask in the delights alone and hide in my obsession.

He started to notice. “Am I wearing too much of this stuff? I think I smell it everywhere?”

“No!” I answered too quickly. “I don’t even notice it anymore.” Crisis averted.

That is, until he left me. During the speech, I sniffled liberally. We were out back, in the garden, so the pollen and tears brought that on naturally, but I also needed the extra inhales. Sure, I had my own source now, but the truth was, it was different coming directly from the bottle. I had learned that it was really the co-mingling effect I craved. Something in his sweat combined with the artificial and created the exact scent I needed to survive. It was my fertilizer, and he was taking it away from me. I couldn’t allow it to happen. He kept explaining the reasons, and my mind began to race. Butterflies and earthworms. They both roam through gardens, but do you know the difference? One flies above land, taking what it can from the above-ground world, reaching deep within the beautiful parts and draining them dry. The other slithers underneath the growth, feeding off the decaying parts left behind.

I wasn’t thinking about how to get him to stay, at least not the him that could stay. I don’t know how the whole thing happened, and I can’t say, certainly not now. There was a shovel still in my gloved hands when he came over for the talk. My corporal body reacted. My mind hadn’t even caught up yet. My body knew it had to be done. My mind’s remaining concern was whether the scent would still emanate from the decomposition. Maybe for a little while. Or, maybe, it would mix in with the soil, and every time I till the garden, the interweaving of what was once beautiful and what was now decaying would produce a new compound altogether. I wondered what perfume might stem from this new concoction and how I could continue its production.