It takes one week for the bed to suck up my smell. Neither delicate nor strong, no traces of aftershave or perfumes, which I seldom use, just dead skin, greasy hair, and saliva. As I stare the ceiling on Saturday night, it crawls up the nostrils and gently dismisses any train of thought, until I’m confronted with a presence, both familiar and uncanny.

This smell lives dark corners, still it knows about joy and enthusiasm and the zesty games of light. Its identity is clear and definite. This smell speaks in patterns, and repeats them until any sense is lost. It cuddles me, grazes my neck, puts me to sleep.

On Sunday morning, I change the bed sheets.

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