Samuel told me that a man needs to move on from the things that he’s lost, that the smell of grief never goes away.

He had that smell, you know? Lonesomeness was in his pores. Every man has a smell underneath the soap and aftershave. Maybe you’re different, who knows? But you have a different smell. You smell like dollar bills and big-ticket whiskey.

Maybe you smell something on me. Something under the perfume. Maybe you smell a whore. I’m no lamb, but I’m not what you think. Samuel may be a rough plank of wood to you, but he was more. He knew how to treat a lady. He’d hold the door for me. If it rained, he’d give me his jacket. He wouldn’t kiss me in public, but he wanted to. He was a gent. Men like you would have smirked. Stared at my legs and winked at your pals. Samuel, though… he said nice things and meant them. He didn’t play at it. When he wanted me, he’d tell me. I want you, he’d say. Just like that. He wouldn’t hold my hand, but I know he wanted to. He wanted to hold me in the middle of 5th Avenue, he wanted to kiss me in front of Woolworth’s. Did he love me? Sure he did, but he never said it out loud. He didn’t have to. I could smell it on him, you know? Did you ever know anything that good? I guess all you smell is a whore. That’s okay. You can think whatever you want. I know who he was, and I’ll move on. I can still smell him, and it won’t go away.


Author: Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

8 thoughts on “Samuel”

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