The Signs

"How will I know if he's, you know, cheating on me...." she asked, her voice trailing off to a whisper.

"You'll notice," I told her, as I pushed a slice of lemon into the bottle before taking a swig. "You know, the small stuff. Things you typically dismiss."

"Like what?" she prodded, as she gripped her own bottle tightly with both hands. There was a moment's pause as I tried to recall things I have long forgotten.

"His scent. I mean, he'll smell differently. In the morning he's his usual unscented-bar-of-soap self, then comes back reeking of lilac or lavender. You'd probably think he showered in the gym, but..."

She cut me off. "And once you ask him about it, the next time he comes home, he'll head straight for the shower and drown that invisible bouquet," she added knowingly.

I decided to fan the flames. "And if he starts bringing clothes in the shower so he's fully clothed coming in and out, he's definitely hiding something."

"A kiss mark!" she exclaimed wide-eyed, her head bobbing vigorously.

It was a full minute before she said another word. "But you know what? Shouldn't he start turning cold already? That has not happened, though..."

It was my turn to cut her off. "I guess that's true. But some can become even more affectionate and work harder to please you. Out of guilt perhaps? I don't know."

"Or out of pure evil, so that you won't know what hit you," she lamented.

Just then her partner barges through the front door, gives us a quick greeting, drops a bag of Godiva chocolates on her lap, and rushes into the bathroom. My friend bit her lip and eyed the gift suspiciously. "It's the signs," she mouthed, as she looked at me helplessly. I inched closer to comfort her.

Then there was an explosion of sounds, barely muffled by the bathroom door, then quickly followed by the apologetic sound of flush water. I lit one of the small jars on the table, and the soothing scent of jasmine began dispersing calmness across the room.

photo from here