It wasn’t, of course. That sour, rusty odor
sent coworkers, us, tipping trashcans, sniffing
at counters, at the air, wide-eyed like deer
so sure death is crouching in that scent.
After two weeks, when the pattern pointed
to her, we each hypothesized: An alcoholic,
obviously. No, my brother is an alcoholic
and he smells like… well, not like that.
Then it was clear, horribly clear, and it was
me who drew the short straw, who had to
invite her to sit down, offer tepid water
in a paper cup, breathe in strawberry body
spray
spritzed in some final, shocking awareness
just before I shut the door on us and the
rancid fruit smell, my hollow words circling
her trembling, realizing, I just stopped caring.