He wore old spice. I never liked it, I knew he did. To me it smelled like something trying to cover something else up. Kind of like he was. His actions were mostly born out of guilt, like he did something bad and had to cover it up with something nice. But like the old spice the nice actions, the flowers, the presents, the gestures, did not completely covered the other scent, the odor, the odor of guilt. I loved it when he brought me flowers, but soon enough I learned what flower really meant. I learned what kisses really meant. And then I hated his kisses and I hated his flowers, I hated his presents.
But then, there were no more kisses, no more flowers, no more. We were no more. He was no more in relation to me, and I was no more in relation to him. There was still the odor, his and mine and ours, all the flowers were gone but the old spice remain.