The More Things Change

6 Feb

When I was a little girl, my father smelled of gasoline, starlight mints, Basic Lights, and cold air. These smells were pleasantly trapped in his hooded sweatshirts and t-shirts and when I hugged him, I was cloaked in that mixture. Because I love him so goddamn much (and because I was a child), I thought that all men smelled this way.

When I began keeping the company of other men, I discovered that they did not smell like my father. One in particular smelled like clove cigarettes and old books.

My ex-husband smelled like peach pie and Old Spice deodarant. I adored the way he smelled so much that I sniffed at his armpits when we were in bed. Because I loved him so goddamn much (and because I was a child), I thought I would never smell another man.

Reader, I was wrong. And lo these years later, after I have smelled new men and more, part of me is still shocked (!) that I am not with him. That it isn’t his body wrapped around mine, his taste on my tongue.

I don’t love him anymore. I feel no electricity between him and me in those rare and uncomfortable occasions that we see each other. I don’t want to be his wife (or his dog) anymore. But I still expect him and that, Daisy, is fucked up.

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