Driving home from her apartment, another cheap date: dinner at a deli and shopping at a mall. The half life of her perfume hums to me as I run stoplights. I wonder if she holds on to these moments as long as I do. I am sure she would only smile and shake her head if she realized how I replay every moment from the evening- her laughter at the nervous waiter ("It's my first night" he says, six times)-the way she scrapes sour cream off the edge of my plate with a knife ("What? Why waste it?"), and as usual, the soft way she pulls my shoulder as she steers me into/out of stores ("Comere").

I will inhale this, her, for the rest of the night. I will leave my coat at the foot of the bed so the fragrance doesn't leave me. I am sucker for this stuff, I know. And I know I am lucky she doesn't mind.