Morning Perfume
It was the smell of something I didn’t recognize that slipped through the cracked kitchen window, a faint citrus that hung in the air like a promise. I glanced at the clock—seven twenty‑two—then at the coffee maker, its quiet gurgle a metronome to the day beginning. The drip was slow, each drop a tiny plink against the ceramic mug that waited on the counter.
He stood in the bedroom doorway, his silhouette framed by the weak light spilling from the hallway. The mirror behind him caught his reflection, a man smoothing the edge of his collar as if it were a lapel on a tuxedo. He lifted a bottle of cologne, the one he kept for “special occasions,” and sprayed—once, twice, three times—until the scent was a heavy, sweet fog that seemed to cling to the walls.
He inhaled, closed his eyes, and smiled at himself. Too much cologne, I thought, as the fragrance swelled, filling the room with a perfume that wasn’t mine. Too much excitement, perhaps, for a man who claimed he was just heading to the office.
