My Husband Didn't Smell Like Himself Anymore

It started one morning. He was already walking around the room as I woke up. When he saw me rub my eyes, he smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning, Liz.”

“Good morning…wait, come closer.”

“What’s wrong?” he said, smiling.

“Just come.”

He leaned over, and I took a deep sniff of his skin. A sour, metallic smell hit my nose. My body immediately recoiled. It smelled nothing like him.

“What is that?”

He furrowed his brow and looked at me.

“What? My skin?”

“It smells so weird.” I took another sniff and turned my head away.

“It’s just new soap. You’ll have to get used to it.” He squeezed my thigh so hard it made me twitch, and walked back to the bathroom. I rubbed my thigh as I stared at him. It was not just the smell, but also the way he squeezed me, the way he looked so smugly at himself in the bathroom mirror, combing his hair.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. His gaze, his touch. And the smell! It started to give me headaches. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran up the stairs to the bathroom, looking for the special soap. I drew the curtains and flung open cabinets, but no matter how hard I looked, it was nowhere to be found. Had he been lying to me?

I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my leg. When he opened the door, he frowned and looked away.

“What’s it this time, Liz?” he murmured.

“You don’t have the right…”

“I don’t?!” he shouted over me. I leaned back and let out a faint gasp.

“I work myself to death, stress over each client. And what do I come home to - my wife talking about some fucking soap.”

“Then where is it? I searched the whole bathroom.”

He clenched his jaw and banged on the table.

“I threw it out this morning because of you,” he said between his teeth.

“But how did it…”

He grabbed my hands and pulled me closer, his face twisted in anger. I screamed and closed my eyes.

“Fucking stop,” he said, and let me go.

Tears streamed down my face. I got off the chair and ran upstairs. My wrists were pulsing from how hard he had grabbed them, and worst of all, they had that strange smell on them.

The mattress sank as I lay on it. I burrowed my face into the pillow and curled up. His steps echoed through the hall. He banged on the door, calling my name, but I didn’t answer and pushed the pillows over my ears, reducing his calls to a muffled splatter of sounds.

The sun had set by the time I lifted my head. I wasn’t crying or sad, just tired, so tired. My hands were still shaking as I took a lighter and lit up a candle. One thing that could always calm me down. But no matter how much I breathed in the smell of roses, my body still wouldn’t relax. Thoughts of my husband grabbing me ran over and over in my mind. What had happened to him? My eyes watered again. No, maybe he was just tired, overstressed. He works so much for us.

I pulled out our photo album to try to lift my mood and remember happier times, but as I flipped the pages, my husband was nowhere to be found. My friends, my family, but not him! I flipped faster, faster, until my eyes darted to a photo of myself at the lake and a man, holding my shoulders. We looked so happy together, smiling ear to ear. He looked so much like my husband, but it was not him. But he looked so similar, and I knew him. I knew that man. Was the man downstairs someone else? No, no. No way. I was just freaking out. But the smell, his gaze, his touch. And the soap! My stomach twisted.

A knock on the door.

“Listen. I’m sorry. I overreacted. Can we please talk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please, I’m really sorry.”

I must have been going crazy. There was no way.

I looked at the picture.

“This man will be behind that door,” I whispered to myself, took a deep breath, and walked over, twisting the lock and slowly opening the door.

Panic surged through my body. It was someone else, his eyes, his lips, his nose.

“You, you’re not him,” I said and started backing off.

“What has gotten into you?” he said and started coming closer. The more I looked into his eyes, the more foreign they seemed.

“Get away from me.”

“Liz, stop.” He got closer and grabbed me by the wrist again; the pain shot up my arm. That awful smell lingered in the air.

I let out a scream, pulled my wrist out, and pushed him. He took a few steps back and tripped on the edge of the bed. His arms flailed as he crashed into the closet, hitting his head on the corner. He let out a sharp breath and fell to the ground.

My whole body trembled. I sat on the bed and pulled the photo out, looking at the man on the ground and the man in the photo. No, it really was somebody else. I took a deep breath and held the photo tightly in my hand, but as I pulled it closer, I noticed some writing on the back of it.

It said: “Your wife’s a great woman, cousin.”

What?

A wave of coldness washed over me. I took the photobook out of the drawer and flipped to the next page. Photos of me hugging and kissing a man, the man who lay on the floor. A small red pool was under his head. A metallic smell filled the air.