I lost my sense of smell. At least, I think I misplaced it. Probably post Covid, certainly post sinus surgery. I would bury my face in a large bank of jasmine. Henri would be reeling back from the intensity. I would be bewildered. The scent only of absence.
We’ve always grown sweet peas on the plot. Memories of childhood carried by my favourite flower scent. I brought a bunch, fresh-cut, home the other week. Henri smiled, commented on their stunning smell. There was nothing there for me, though I tried repeatedly.
