Smells of You | Completed

Smell of You

Find hobbies, they said. Make new friends. Stop moping around all day over your dead husband. Go out on the town, they said. Yeah, well, she did just that. Now here she was in her new apartment with a crochet hook in one hand and a half-done oatmeal-colored chunky blanket in the other. Hundreds of dollars later, she had found an expensive hobby, but a hobby, nonetheless. It's been seven months since her husband died. Six months since she found out she was pregnant—five months since she started to put her broken pieces back together. Four months since her therapist, whom she meets once a week, told her that crying was healthy and that she was a pretty crier.

Daniel, her deceased husband, died due to cancer. Surprise, surprise, to no one. They knew it was coming. She knew she'd have to let him go, yet she stayed. She figured she'd deal with the heartbreak later. Now was later. Let him live the rest of his life with her, happy and in love. She thought that was her parting gift to him. Little did she know he'd also left her a part gift. Along with the memories, he'd given her a baby. Their baby. Danielle. Their baby was to be a girl, and Fiona named her after the baby's father.

Death was a celebration in African American culture. There was no crying, no sobbing; one had to be joyous in the time they had with the deceased. Even at her husband's funeral, her mother said, "smile darling, be joyous in the time you had with him." One was supposed to be grateful for the time God granted them with the person who has left. But she cried, sobbed, tore down her house, and fell into a depressive episode. No matter how much she "prepared" for his death, the heartbreak still tore through her.

Thirty pounds heavier and tired all the time, she moved into a smaller space. An apartment fit for her and her baby. Filled with handmade blankets and the comfiest couch ever, Fiona Gray could finally say she was somewhat happy. She was at peace for the time she spent crocheting on the sofa. For the time she spent waking up or taking a bath. She could relax, let the soft music carry her away, as she tried to live her life as Daniel wanted her to.

The peaceful serenity surrounding her was rudely interrupted by a growl from her stomach. Fiona was always hungry, even before she was pregnant. But do you think she knew what she wanted to eat? No, not a clue. She knew she didn't want anything in her house, and she also knew that she didn't want to go out to get something either. So instead of trying to figure out something to eat, she continued to crochet her tenth blanket.

She tried to ignore the hunger, focusing on the blanket she was trying to make. Only that didn't work, and now she was starting to get hangry. As she set aside her project, she caught a whiff of something that made her pause her movements.

Her senses were out of whack. That she knew, but the smell grew stronger as the minutes went by was deviously spicy. It was warm and reminded her of Asian cuisine. Whatever it was, it was good; she hoped it was real food. Lord, it smelled good. Where was it coming from? She got up to follow the smell and padded her way around her couch. Sniffing the air as if she could track down where the deliciously soul-snatching smell was coming from.

She huffed, tucking a loose coil of hair that fell out of her messy bun behind her ear. Fiona was focused on following the smell, which led her to the right side wall of her apartment. She pressed her face to the wall, surely getting her facial oils all over her pristine white wall. Fiona wasn't worried about the stains on her wall. She was worried about how she would eat the smell she was smelling. The smell was getting stronger as time passed. She could practically hear the sizzle of a pan. The savory taste she imagined the food to be made her mouth water and lick her lips. The smell itself could turn her on in ways unholy, and that only hyped her up for the taste. Hmmm. The taste.

A taste she wouldn't get to taste. She let gravity take her to the floor, squatting first, then spreading her legs out with her back leaning against the wall. Damn. She wouldn't be able to get a taste of the delicious food next door. What was it? Was it stir fry? It smelled like stir fry. It could also be a soup, maybe gumbo. Oh, gumbo sounded good right about now. There was a chicken scent too. Seasoned chicken sounded good too.