Page 10 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
She looked like she might puke or maybe pass out, so I led her to a kitchen chair and got her to lower her head below her knees. Then I uncorked the wine she’d brought and poured her a splash.
She waved it off. “Could I get some water, instead? Please?”
I filled a glass from the faucet and watched the color return to her cheeks as she slipped slowly.
“Feeling better?” I was torn between concern about her and not wanting to burn the meal.
A small nod. “Yeah, thanks.”
She wrinkled her nose and cast a glance toward the coffee table in the living room, where the overpriced candle from the crystal shop crackled and burned.
I followed her gaze. “What?”
“What’s that scent?”
“The candle? Sandalwood. Doesn’t it smell great?”
She mustered up a weak smile. “Yeah, I guess. I smelled it everywhere I went for a while, then, out of the blue, it disappeared. But now it’s back.”
Her fixation on the candle confused me, but she seemed to expect a response. “Well, it’s a very popular scent. Has been for years. I can remember my stepdad wearing it as aftershave when I was growing up.” And, before him, my dad. But I don’t talk about him. Ever.
“Really? I never smelled it until … last winter.”
Last winter was her oblique way of referencing her roommate’s murder. And while she didn’t seem to make the connection—at least not consciously—between the aroma and the killer, I sure did. I covered the candle with its lid to extinguish the scent, then pulled her into the dining room and got her settled in the chair.
As she draped her napkin over her lap, she murmured, “Such a strange coincidence.”
“What is?”
“That scented candle.”
I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the wine and two glasses. I poured her a generous portion. As I handed her the glass, I said, “Not really. It’s a phenomenon called frequency illusion.”
She smiled an odd, sad smile. “Yeah. Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon.”
“That’s right.” I clinked my glass against hers. “Cheers.”
She brightened, visibly shrugging off her sorrow like it was a coat. “Cheers. I’m so excited to try your cooking.”
Neither of us brought up her reaction to the sandalwood candle for the rest of the evening. The next morning, before sunrise, I left her sleeping in my bed, crept out to the trash can in the backyard, and tossed the thing in the bin.
Six
Alex
* * *
The tea kettle whistles, and I jump. I’m not easily startled anymore–at least not usually. But I slept poorly last night, and my nerves are frayed. I woke with the vague feeling that I’d had the nightmare again. Seems I only have this particular dream when Robert’s traveling for work. Unfortunately for me, he’s a linguist with the Air Force, so he’s pretty much always traveling for work.
“Two more years,” I say aloud to my empty kitchen as I cross the room to turn off the burner under the kettle and prepare yet another mug of fragrant jasmine tea.
Two more years of service and then Robert can retire with full benefits and a stellar pension. And I won’t spend most of my time alone and isolated on this mountain.
I stir sugar into my tea and watch the granules swirl in an eddy until they dissolve in the hot liquid. I wonder if Cicero coined the phrase that loosely translates to ‘tempest in a teapot’ or ‘storm in a teacup’ while fixing a beverage. Then I wonder if the ancient Romans drank tea.
And I’m off, chasing one shiny thought after another down Internet rabbit holes courtesy of my slow, unreliable connection. By the time I learn about a restaurant in Rome whose chef recreates recipes from De Re Coquinaria, a cookbook that has somehow survived since the first century AD, I’ve managed to drink an entire kettle’s worth of tea. I add the name of the restaurant to the notebook where Robert and I scribble bucket list ideas for travel and adventure after he separates from the military.
“Two more years,” I remind myself again.
