Air pressure

His smell. Undeniably of him. Like no one else she'd ever smelled before, like her nose was hardwired into her pulse. Every time she smelled him, she felt as if her head would explode from blood pressure rising. The middle of the night wake-ups, the 3 am silent dark moments. She'd awaken from deep slumber smelling him. He's 5000 kilometers away and permeates every cell of her body. How does that happen? There's an upside to having a large linen collection. Fifteen sets of pillowcases and it's as if he's in every one. She can't remember the last time he laid his head on her pillow, if ever, now that she thinks about it. Yet she'll walk down the street, do a triple shoulder check because she swears he's in the air, all around her. In the midst of the heavyset autumn eve, he lingers in her body. Something happens when the sun comes out and the trees erupt their blossoms. His scent disappears. Only for a few days but it's as if the possibility of new growth, the inevitable change in seasons, eradicates the pervasiveness and overbearing weight of his scent, of him.