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He wanted to talk with her, prepare her for the worst, what might come, but as usual, she wouldn’t listen. She silently stood up and went to rearrange her perfume bottles. “They’ve discontinued this one,” she finally commented, almost absently, picking up a near-empty container.
He recognized the bottle; it was a simple perfume which, while inexpensive, smelled heavenly on her.
“Isn’t that the one you call... how do you put it... your something scent or other?”
"Signature,” she offered, grimacing at the common place. “Yes, it’s my favourite perfume.’ She spun round with a forced smile and tried to look skittish, as if nothing were wrong.
“A warm embrace that fits me effortlessly, like a second skin. We’re a perfect match. We melt into each other and the result smells like home.” She laughed and he smiled; little Anca, poetic and stubborn, as always.
“It frightens me to think what will happen when it runs out,” she said. “Maybe I should try to find a substitute with a similar combination of ingredients.” Her finger ran around the small porcelain bowl in which she kept the testers. “All these perfumes are much more expensive. Some wear me rather than the other way around and there are some really nice ones among them, but none feels like a second skin. None feels like home.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?” he replied, still not completely sure he understood or liked the metaphor.
She stuck her tongue out at him and, for a brief moment, the clouds cleared.
He reached for a frail distracting sunbeam. “What are we having for tea tonight?”
It worked. Lightness genuinely returned to her face. “Sarmale with chicken and roasted veg. And bread sauce.”
Nicks exhaled a satisfied sigh. The perfect Romanian meal with a British twist, as good as Christmas dinner. Why on earth did she love him? Why was she doing all this for him? What was he doing here, spoiling her life this way? She deserved better.
“Or we could have a curry instead,” Anca’s voice broke into his thoughts, rescuing him yet again from himself.
“No, no...” Finally, he managed a smile. “No, it sounds great. Really great.” He stood up and reached for a bottle of cheap cognac he kept in the sideboard for emergencies. “Do you mind if I go out on the terrace... for a quick drink?”
Anca shook her head and he started for the back door. “I know, Nicks,” her voice followed him softly. “I know I’m not your second skin. But I can still be your home.”