I put on the perfume that will remind him of something he used to love. So he can't get out of this. I feel exotic, I feel like if anything, I am a Spanish wine on a summery night on a back porch far away from cars, and I feel like if anything, I am the stars and the hot humid night.
When he is laying next to me, he is not thinking about that but the perfume has reminded him of when he was a little boy. He isn't thinking about the streets in Oviedo after a warm summer rain. He's never been there. He's thinking about an aunt an uncle of his used to be married to. Maybe she smelled like me and that's what conjured her up. He was watching her cut carrots and red cabbage. She sliced the cabbage in half and showed the inside to him, as she was always marveling at the small things, the intricacies of cabbage or how tadpoles could into frogs and how she knew that the TV was floating in millions of particles over her head--which we have all learned from Willy Wonka--but she couldn't explain to him when he asked, how the rest of it worked. She had freckles. She couldn't explain to him why her skin had freckles and his didn't. But they weren't actually related by blood.
What he says out loud is something about Donald Trump.
