early Monday

Monday mornings, I'm not sure what gets into me.

Perhaps it's the first glimpse of freedom after a weekend with my husband.  I can walk around less than dressed, and languish in bed reading a book or answering mail.  I can take my time making coffee, making calls.  I never make appointments on Monday mornings if I can help it. 

They're mine.

Mondays always lead to trouble.  I shower, and the heat envelops me.  I press my body against the cool wall and let the water beat upon my back.  My hand grabs a slender bottle:  the scent of cream; sweet, silky.  Each scent seems to have a personality.  Some have a memory attached; of a man.   Someone with a decent olfactory sense would know that I was pulling out one for one man, something different for the next, saving some for another.  I may no longer have their bodies, but I have reminders.

The places we shared,  whispered conversations, feelings and sights burned into memory.  I can bathe in the scent I deigned theirs and wear the lingerie they favored.  I can relive stolen moments as I slink back into cool crisp sheets.