The Stranger’s Perfume

I can smell her on his skin. She wears a distinct perfume – something like a mixture of vanilla and orange blossom. Sometimes the scent of her perfume is so strong, I think she spritzed it on his clothes to mark him like a dog marks a fire hydrant, but then I have to remind myself not to think such uncharitable thoughts. Her perfume could’ve easily rubbed off on his clothes from whenever he held her last.

He doesn’t care if I smell her on him, but he’s careful not to bring any evidence of me back to her. He always showers when we’re done, always takes great care not to let his clothes get wrinkled, and always keeps track of the clock.

I wonder how paranoid she must be for him to do this. When I think of her, I picture a shrill, sexless harpy that suffocates him with demands, accusations, and jealousy. Another uncharitable thought. I need to stop thinking like this. I don’t know her. I have no right to judge her.

I think I’d feel guilty if I knew her – if I could match the smell of vanilla and orange blossom to a face. Maybe I’d even feel guilty enough to stop. But I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to feel guilty. I’m perfectly happy being the other woman.