She bit her lower lip with her front teeth, the rain spritzing her face as she walked fast home. She let her bottom lip flop out and she swallowed, reminiscing of a few days before. Her hand crushed a soft, velvet rose, sunset colors strewn in her dirt riddled hands. The sharp thorns were between her fingers, flapping back and forth as she swung her hips to her own rhythm. Petals broke from the bud, already sopping and flopped in her palm. She threw down the mess on the sidewalk, outside of a hipster coffee shop with letters bold showing light descriptions of the offerings behind the locked door. She smiled, coyly, thinking of what she would do next, whenever that may be. A flicker of a crooked finger, flicking gently inside of a velour tunnel, wet and supple, relying on skill and imagination above all else. His face, looking back at her, was enough to set her mouth salivating in response. She smelled her hand, a lingering floral musk of the soft sherbet rose mixed with earth and desire. Her scent had changed since several hand washings and seasonal beers later. Her sweet and tangy fingers had been masked by a deep mustard from the tastings of a Bavarian ground blend and pimento cheese flavoring, salty and warm, from hours earlier. She had tried many mustards in the last week, ranging from an apple chutney to a squeeze cheez replica. She laughed, triumphantly, at the change in scents, subtle and subdued. Soft petals with a deep atmosphere of earth. The scent of him had lingered, almost four days later. She could make out the smell of his seed between her fingers, causing distress in her body, aching to feel him behind her again. The scent of the rose and herbs had thwarted the distinction and soap had washed away the remains. She wondered how long it would be until her hair and body no longer traced his desire, hugging and clinging to her nostrils for what seemed like an eternity.
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