The Taste of Lavender (6 page)

(Present Day)

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T
he past two years have altered me, in
an irrevocable fashion and with iron-clad finality. I found, and then lost, the
one thing that I’d never known was missing from my life—my one great love. My
twin flame, so to speak.

It’s been over a year since I last spoke
to Maribel, but only hours since I last thought of her.

Time does heal, but it’s been a slow
process and leaves me battle weary at the end of each and every day. I witness
my life, down to the minutia of daily living, through a glassine barrier, which
distorts even the most recognizable moments. Like looking through Vaseline
covered glasses.

I may have survived the turn of events,
but my marriage did not. Faced with a wife he no longer recognized, my husband
left me and the house we’d shared for nearly a decade. And I’d hardly noticed
or cared.

Today is one of my better days.

I managed to get out of bed before noon,
dress myself, down a cup of black coffee and took myself to the mall. I needed
a day of window-shopping to distract myself, sure, but mostly I needed a day
outside of my house—which overlooked
her
house. Even though Lucas had
packed it in and abandoned his life here a month ago, I still saw Maribel in
every errant bloom poking through the overgrowth, behind every shadowed window,
on the porch swing in the moments where the wind buffeted it just so.

So I’ve been wandering aimlessly about
the mall for a few hours. I look at the fashionable window displays, but I
don’t really see anything. It’s all bright colors and the use of negative space
and I don’t care to register the details. The rainbow of colors and stark bones
of the structure, the amalgam of scents wafting from the food court, the dull
roar of the crowds as they snake to and fro talking about parties and marriages
and vacations. It’s all so overwhelming.

I see the mothers, children, families. 
I’m glad that I don’t have a child depending on me for guidance and affection.
That well is dry and will probably remain so, or at least that’s what it feels
like to me now. I’d like to believe that I will heal, at least enough to feel
something, anything, in the future—but I’m not holding out hope.

Worse are the couples, strolling around
with their fingers intertwined, dopey expressions on their faces. They have it
all—hopes, dreams and each other. My stomach churns as my own missed happiness
bobs to the surface, and bringing with it fresh tears in my eyes.

I need a distraction and I notice the
chain bookstore up ahead. Perfect. I can lose myself among the stacks. Maybe
even hunt down a few of the novels I’d managed to edit before my life landed in
the crapper.

As I enter the expansive store with
horrible yellow lighting, my eyes are overwhelmed by the sheer number of
volumes stacked on every available surface. The smell of paper and ink tug at
something inside of me, reminding me of a time when I
lived
, when I’d
swooned over a new release, pulled the book up to my face and inhaled it’s
bound and printed goodness.

A little flicker deep in my chest,
reminding me that there, buried under cartilage and bone was my heart, still
beating. I just had to remember. It sounds simple enough, but when all I want
to do is forget, accomplishing that little task is akin to scaling Hadrian’s
wall. Remembering hurts and I don’t want to hurt anymore.

Not for the first time, I wish for shock
therapy or some magic pill that would bring me back to myself and erase the
searing pain of losing Maribel. Or some hypnotic suggestion that would allow me
to smell lavender without remembering how she’d tasted on my lips. Never mind
that I now owned twenty-seven bottles of various lotions, shower gels and
such—all containing lavender. I never said I wasn’t a masochist and although I
wanted to forget, I was at the same time terrified of losing the memory of
Maribel.

And then I see it.

The cover is what I’d called literary;
two women holding hands while walking away from the camera, out of focus and
all dreamy-like, cloaked in muted earth-tone colors. The title is
The
Longing
and the author is Maribel Santos Campenella.

I reach out with shaking fingers, lift
the book from its perch at the top of a stack by some unseen force that surely
has a sick sense of humor. I know before even touching it that this novel is
going to hurt me. The book feels heavy, weighted further by my anticipation. My
desire to know what the book is about (meaning: Am I in it?) is outweighed by
needing to glean any information I can about Maribel’s current life, so I flip
to the author bio in the back.

I don’t let myself linger over her
photo. I am not ready to her just yet, even if it’s nothing more than an image
frozen in time. Instead, I scan the bio picking out key phrases: debut novel...
exploring the intricacies of friendship and love between women...living in
southern Madrid... with her husband.

I drop the book and a rumpled clerk in a
too-tight store vest leers at me from the next aisle over. I mumble my
apologies, snatch up the book and hurry to the nearest counter. I feel shame at
my weakness, but I can’t stop myself from this train-wreck heading my way. I
will read the book and then I will interpret every nuance, every line to mean
something or another, and in the end I will hate myself for it.

And I will hate Mirabel for reducing our
time together into eighty-thousand words or less, love her for thinking our
time together significant enough to expound upon, and hate her again for being
detached enough from her feelings to dissect our relationship into plot lines,
suppositions and literary prowess. 

Book paid for, I stash the copy in my
bag and hurry to my car. I plow through shoppers without taking much notice. My
eyes are down, cast to the floor, and the bland oatmeal tile blurs past as I
count the steps inside my hear. I focus on the steps to keep myself from
imploding... or more embarrassingly, sinking to the floor in the middle of the
mall to read and cry. This book is the closest thing to being near Maribel that
I’ve had in months and I can’t even wait to savor it in the privacy of my own
home.

“Watch it lady!” A burly man spins away
from my trajectory, spittle flying from his face as I pass by. I ignore him.

At the car, I fumble with the keys. I
curse and feel hot tears pour down my face. The car is stifling, full of
stagnant air. I hardly notice as I dig the book out of my bag and gingerly open
it. My eyes land on the Dedication Page.

It has been said that with every
great love we have, a little piece of our souls is left behind after the
cleaving. I hope it is so, and that a small “nothing” of myself, a collection
of molecules and memories that flit in and out of the subconscious, stayed when
I had to go. I can only wish that I had more of me to leave behind. ~Maribel

In that moment I realize that I’m not
broken, as I’d been thinking for months. No, it’s not that my heart is
splintered, fractured or smashed to a million bits and pieces...

It’s that half of the damn thing is
missing, spirited away to parts unknown by the one person who ever got close
enough to steal it.

(the end)

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E
mma Shane writes romance and erotica from her quaint
Victorian home in coastal Virginia. She stays up all night, snacks on Red Hots,
and drools over Eric Northman and Hank Moody frequently (and without an ounce
of shame). Her family pretends to ignore this behavior as much as they can.

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W
ays to connect with Emma:

I
f you enjoyed this novella, check out other gender-bending
books by Emma Shane and
Quirky Gurl Media
!

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On A Plane
is a collection of short stories about women that decided to heat up a boring
flight with intense erotic moments in mid-flight. (M/F, F/F)

––––––––

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T
he Taste of Lavender

By: Emma Shane

Copyright
2013 by Emma Shane

Quirky
Gurl Media

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Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Shane, Emma

The Taste of Lavender/ Emma Shane-1st ed

Formatted by Karen Fowler

Cover Design by Karen Fowler Photography

Quirky Gurl Media

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