When I first met her, she smelled like beach vacations. Sand, sunscreen, salt. Sweet, melted treats from the boardwalk. When she was mad, it was like the rolling, blue-dark clouds that came in off the water, lightning far off and dancing across the horizon, her words white-capped waves.
In the court room, she is all tourist trap. Caricatures and big sounds and bright lights. Artifice, promising things that are much better in description than reality. As I pass her on my way out, the scent is candy, like grape, watermelon, strawberry. Fake. She is only a flavor of the woman I used to know.
bohemian.on.rye 