Acrid Tang

It's not Love it just smells like it: ACRID TANG

I can not move.

In the time it takes to draw heavily on the fag, I see my whole life go
clattering past. I'm caught in the doorway to the house, one foot on
the doorstep, the other in the hall. My right hand stops the suitcase
from falling over, the left still holds the key in the lock. I tug it
out and let the door swing back. The sound of the rain behind me gives
way to music from the living room, the hi-fi on full-tilt. French
accordion. Memories of the Paris metro try to roll through my mind but
the air here is too thick and warm. This is not the chilly haunt of
beggars and haranguers failing to come between us as you and I kiss
forever. Going from station to station until our shirts are sodden with
saliva. This reeks too much of staying still, of not needing to go
anywhere. This is home, and it is warm and solid and

fragrant.

Garlic. Garlic permeates the place. And herbs. Basil, maybe oregano. A
hint of tomatoes too. And something dark, a splash of oak-tainted wine
perhaps. Simmering down. There's also a trace of smoke but nothing
burning, not food, not fags, not fire. More like a candle that's just
been put out. It mingles with something sweet like flowers. Rose
petals, perfume or soap. The body lotion your sister gave you at
Christmas. Expensive I'm sure but the name escapes me. Some French
affair no doubt. But there's a mild hint of something else from
upstairs. Here in the hall it is vague, nothing more than a
possibility. But I know that if I followed it I would find something
unmistakable. Something strong and heady like

the acrid tang of sweat.

I do my best to breathe it in, to evade the rising coils of fag smoke
from my fingers. There it is, without a doubt. I am tracing the tail
end of the thunderous air that brews beneath bedclothes. I can almost
taste it, the sticky air made when one throws one's body wholeheartedly
against another. It takes determination and strength, a healthy
appetite. But this isn't just a hint of any body, any person. This is
rumour of you. The sweat of your skin, the dampness of your body, drawn
and lathered into a scent that has been bottling in my mind all my life
and labelled "Love".

It stirs so much, heart and soul, that I can not move. I meant to call
from the station and tell you I was coming home today.