i was on the hunt for painkillers, two ibuprofen to quell the stomach ache.
i wandered past the pharmacy and saw bottles lined up blue and green and screaming REDUCED in yellow letters.
knees bent, steam filled my glasses, warm breath beneath my mask and i saw the bottle staring at me, knowing it was irresistible.
and it found it’s way in my basket because i knew the smell before the cap was opened.
it smelt like soft skin and ginger, calloused hands and haribo star mix.
and the thought of it, the thought of feeling that smell run through my nose and hair once again, became too much so i paused by the talc and pulled the bottle from beneath semi skimmed milk.
all it took was a peek beneath the lid to spark a tingle in my eyelids that couldn’t be controlled.
a shop assistant came over, kept two metres while i wailed.
fresh ginseng and tears make for a heady duet, tugging at my nostrils and the tears found their way down my chin.
no pretty single-tear crying here, just shuddering sobs while we face the condoms.
and when i got into the shower, to rinse myself in your scent, to feel my skin, imagining my hands are yours, drenched in cheap masculine smell,
i sob again.
this time leaned up against the tap, knocking my shampoo bottle to the floor, knelt facing enamel and mould.
as i bashed my head on the shower as i stood up i realised.
i’d forgotten the ibuprofen and paid 89 pence for mourning.
Image courtesy of Skyler King.