The smell of sadness

“Hurry up, Agnes!” Norman yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “You’re always running late, and we have to be at the restaurant in an hour!”

Agnes sighed. Top of the Warwick was only five blocks away, Norman walked faster than anyone she knew, and they had an hour for a ten-minute walk. Why couldn’t she dally in the bathroom if she wanted? She went to her dresser, rinsed her mouth, and spit into the basin.

And then she opened her bottle cologne – lemon verbena sachet. She breathed in its scent and let it penetrate the far reaches of her respiratory system – her nose, her throat, her mouth, and her lungs felt the pleasant tang. But it brought a tear to her eyes –

“Agnes,” Norman repeated, “come quickly. Two minutes and I’m going to the restaurant by myself.”

… for she remembered Granny, her widow’s black lace dresses. Granny wore them more than twenty years after Grandpa Limerick died, the last dozen also for Daddy, the last two also for Uncle Daniel. But she colored her hair flaming red and wore the perfume – the last indulgences left to her, Granny said.

So Agnes spritzed the cologne onto her wrists, her cheeks, and headed down to her husband. One step at a time, in no particular hurry to give him what he wanted.