Her fingers smell of clove cigarettes. She lifts them to her mouth running them over her lips again and again. Her lips feel soft. The smoking has not yet drained them of life. She touches them, remembering what his kiss felt like.
She stops. She raises her head. The night is damp, filled with the scent of urban life. She searches for him in the air. The smell of dal wafts from the curry shop up the street. She drinks it in slowly, remembering the nights where she would nuzzle into his neck after making love for hours.
She stands outside of herself, watching. He would not recognize her now. The memories have taken their toll. Oh, what the body remembers.