five LiamMy arm is spread across the back of the couch. Camila leans back against the crook of my arm, her long, thin fingers tracing circles atop my jean clad thigh. I’m engulfed in the familiar smells, ones I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few months but never craved—those of designer perfumes, hair products, and lotions. Particularly offensive today is the man-made odor rising from the chunk of plastic plugged into the electric outlet beside me. It’s an ill attempt at flowers, I think. Maybe lavender?
It’s assaulting to my senses and the complete opposite of what I long for.
Some of my favorite scents are of dirt, wet with morning dew; fresh-cut hay, earthy and clean; or the mild sweetness of a young cornstalk when its leaves are still bright green and new. I’m met with these no
