note: ten-part series continued! | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

The nasty smells. He seemed to notice them more and more every day. And in most cases, he found himself doing a double-take with his nose. The lingering puff of smell from a burp. The salty steam of urine hitting the urinal. The composite smell of shit emanating from the row of stalls in a public bathroom. The stagnant air of garbage on a hot summer day. The odor of sweaty armpits sans deodorant. The smell of rotten decay from a homeless man asking for change. He blew out his morning breath up his nose. Cigarettes and whiskey – that bitter, sour smell. He did it again and again until it made him nauseous. Then he breathed in the smell rising up from the warm stream of yellow as he stood in the bathroom, scratching the back of his head.

He remembered the way Janet smelled after her accident. Soft cheese and gym lockeroom. He kept his head near her bed, breathing in all the odors from her bedridden body. On some mornings he caught a whiff of her morning breath. The nurse hadn’t come by yet for her daily hygiene care. She was bitter and impatient. She often asked him to go home and leave her alone, although he had used up all his vacation days just to come see her. She was disappointed. Not with herself, but with the fate dealt to her. She had trained obsessively for years and spent many weekends on the bike or on a jogging trail getting herself into shape. She had become a regular on the triathlon circuit, having traveled to Hawaii, Oregon, and other parts of the country to compete in invite-only events. He was always with her to support her, to catch her driven expressions on camera, and to comfort her with Gatorade and a towel after grueling competitions. It was a bike fall that had shattered two of her ribs, her right wrist, and her left leg. It would be crutches and frustration for the next six to eight months.

He had met her fiance once. It was at the hospital. He had left work early to come see her. It was a tall white man with an angular face. He was lanky but muscular. The man reminded him of Lance Armstrong. He brought flowers for Janet and gave her a peck on the cheek before leaving the room. He was standing by the door when the man walked by, not even acknowledging his existence.

“Who was that?” he asked her.

“A friend. He’s also a triathete. He just came to say hi,” she said. She turned on the television and watched.

“Oh. Introduce me to him next time,” he said.

“Sure.”

He stood by the door and looked at his wife. A breeze from the window blew over Janet’s bed and towards the door. It smelled of fruity shampoo.