During the last year, something in him had become tense.
He was home, but absent; attentive in his gestures, but absent in his energy. He still kissed your forehead when he left. He still texted you when his plane landed. He still remembered which coffee creamer you liked. But he had become vigilant in subtle and exhausting ways. He guarded his suitcase. He was careful with his phone. He was quick to minimize questions. He became one of those men who continue to fulfill their role as husbands while, silently, disconnecting from their inner selves.
The smell started three months after that new distance.
At first, you wondered if it was coming from her luggage. First, from her shoes. Then, from something in the closet. But no matter where you checked, the smell always lingered in one place. Her side of the bed. Deep, low, pervasive.
One night, around two in the morning, you woke up with your heart racing.
The room was dark, except for the orange sliver of light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. Miguel was snoring beside you, one arm crossed over his chest. The smell was so strong you almost gagged. Not dramatically. Not an overreaction. Just a sudden, involuntary spasm in your throat that made you cry.
You got out of bed and stood there in the dark, covering your mouth with your hand.
It smelled of damp plastic, rot, mold, and something else. Something metallic and sour. Something hidden for too long.
Miguel stirred. “What are you doing?”
—I can’t breathe here.
