Summer in Washington has a distinct scent: fresh fruit festering in stands, the aroma of warmed pine needles that smells like a sweeter sepia-toned Christmas: dusty cement after the first summer rain is my favorite smell-- earthy and sweaty tones, fresh cut grass tickles my nose and skin with it's distinctly green and wet smell: the smell of blue-raspberry slushies and gasoline, coconut sunscreen and sweet summer sweat-- not the anxious garlicky kind but the sticky syrupy sweat that smells like maple leaves and lake water: the smell of first kisses, passionate and fast summer loves, mystery and cheap cologne, in between breaths and caresses, clean laundry and shaving cream, Old Spice: like my dad's car stale leather and lingering tobacco. Slowly, the smell of pine turns to the smell of rotting leaves, milky sunflowers, and moth-ball soaked wool sweater, nutmeg and cheap pumpkin spice perfume: smells like goodbyes like tears and heartbreak and mom's homemade cinnamon rolls: like the first day of school-- nerves and Clorox wipes, stenches of all of the students rushing through the hall, like the salmon rotting in the streams rank like whatever they prep in the cafeteria. The first snow comes and it smells like peppermint and my great-grandmas lavender bar soap, pine-scented candles and the plastic of the fake tree, turkey and glazed ham, onion, garlic, the aromas of a feast: it smells like being full and then new beginnings and the sulfery toxic smell of fireworks. Before long the sweet sepia-toned pine needles come back around the smell of the first summer rain, another new beginning: a new love, new laundry soap and cheap cologne, a new leathery car smell and a different brand of sunscreen. It lulls into the smell of fresh tears, of rotten leaves, and a new school year.

The ceramic lamp shattered across the wood floor. Eggshell colored fragments and dust litter the mahogany.

“No!” she screamed. “I am tired of cleaning up your fucking messes!” She positioned herself in the doorway pointing a shaking finger at him. Her small fragile skeleton barely occupied the frame.

He drunkenly lunged at her. “You can’t-“ he paused, swallowing his acrid spit. I’m your husband, you can’t fucking leave me.”

“Watch me,” venom spewed from her tired lips.

He continued to come at her. He stumbled drunk, the spell of peppermint schnapps oozed from his pores. As he walked toward her with bare feet the broken pieces of the lamp cracked further under his weight. She stuck her hand out, “stop, I’m done.” She slid the golden band from her fourth finger on her left hand and the two stood in silence as it clinked onto the floor, circling like the whirlpool in a tub drain.

“I have found my strength,” she said in a suddenly calm tone. She turned her back to him, something she was never able to do in their fourteen years of marriage, and walked past him and straight to the front door. She heard him cuss after her, but it sounded distant, she floated above him as she walked toward her escape.

As she turned the handle on the door, she looked back one more time. Soaking in every detail of the house and the man who made her so small. “Good fucking riddance,” she whispered. She spat on the floor adjacent to the door mat, which ironically read “this house is a home”, she swung the door open and placed a foot in the next stage of her life.

The door slammed behind her. No bags packed, she headed for the car, not a single regret in her head.

She discovered it ends like that.