Things That Fade

Day Two

It was the little things at first; a sentence he didn’t hear, a scent he could usually pick up on but failed to do so, a tune he didn’t notice, or a flavor he mistook for something else. Those small things were easy for me to ignore, but not when they began to happen so often.

            On that cold Wednesday night, we took a stroll around town. As we were walking about, we passed by this quaint little bistro. The air was filled with the vividly vibrant scents of vanilla and cinnamon. I was so sure that he would pause and admire the fragrance of the still air; but he didn’t. I had to stop him, look him in the eye and ask him.

“Catchy… do you… smell that?”

            For a split second, a look of pain and confusion flashed across his countenance, but then it was replaced by a sheepish smile. When he turned to me, I covered my nose and pretended as if the scent in the air was utterly repulsive; it wasn’t, he loved the smell of vanilla.

“Oh! You mean that, well, yeah. It smells putrid here, let’s go.” He said, with a grin on his face. His words stung like alcohol on an open wound. I wanted to grab him by the collar, look him in the eye and ask him how long he planned on keeping up his painful little play. In that short moment, there was so much I wanted to say; so much I wanted to ask and yet, neither my heart nor my body could bring itself to speak the words. Maybe I was only imagining it but, as he turned to look away, I felt as if for the slightest of moments he wore a mask of pain and sadness; one which he quickly disposed of when I tugged at his sleeve, gesturing for him to look back at me. He shot me his trademark foxy grin.

“It’s getting late, Hope. Let’s go home.”

           My hands tightened around his as a chill blew right past us. My body shivered a little, not because of the gust of wind, but because of the sight I saw; he was gripping his chest and coughing rather violently. His entire frame was shaking and he began imploding so deep into himself that for a moment, he wouldn’t even let me reach him. I stood there, frozen in place, staring at him. After the coughing had subsided, he stared at the palm of his hands for a brief moment, and then he turned to smile at me. Maybe it was nothing more than paranoia, or maybe my sharp olfactory senses were right; but I thought I could smell blood.