33. Colonge ; Perfume ; Strange smells
There is a certain scent on his clothing, on his skin, that is all its own and entirely different from anything else she had ever smelled before. It's a strange mixture of smoke and life and long hours spent at the architect's table. He smells like the small hours of the morning when lovers are pressed together and the dawn seems so far away.
It is the scent that always gives him away.
When she wakes up in the morning, and the light is harsh on her eyes and her head feels as if it is going to explode and her stomach is twisting ominously, she cannot help but to groan, then smile.
Because that scent is on her clothes, on her skin, and she knows that it could have only been him, him who carried her home, him who gently removed her shoes and socks and jacket and had placed them neatly on the chair. It could have been only him who had tucked her in and brushed back the tangled hair from her face.
She wraps her arms around herself and inhales, hoping to draw that scent with her into eternity.
