Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Harriet
A womanalways knows when a man is no longer hers.
It’s not the investigation that tips her off. The secret apps on his phone that send her notifications. The spies she hires to follow him with dark cabs and powerful cameras. The dumpster dives for receipts, rummaging through trash and leaving her dignity behind.
No, a woman knows by the smell.
Maybe subconsciously. Maybe she brushes it off.
But she knows.
And I know.
My husband used to smell like the enchanted forests, places that only existed in fairytales. Half based in reality and half of a fantasy. Cashmere. Sandalwood. Cedar. Into the woods where Red Riding Hood would meet her fated wolf.
That smell was always thicker, muskier, around me. Fingers in his scalp smelled like walnuts on fire. Kissing him smelled like chestnuts roasting. When we came together, it smelled like flowers in bloom. Hickory. Flames licking at fragrant apple trees.
One year of bliss.
Then the scents changed.
It smelled like cheap perfume when he walked through the door. Chanel so heavy it couldn’t be real. Fake bottles purchased in dark alleyways for a piddling amount of cash. It smelled like trees going up in flames. Deforestation. Animals running for cover and getting charred.
My husband steps into the house now and I smell it. Her. Someone else.
Wrong. Too strong.
A visceral rage builds in my chest. I should step away, pull back before I vomit. Before the acidic bile in my throat explodes in rage and half-chewed tuna.
But I don’t.
I stay.
Then I move closer.
Because the idiots in horror movies are always the investigators. The curious blondes who can’t turn away from a mystery. The pretty protagonists who always make it to the end in spite of their stupid decisions.
“What are you doing home?” Jerrison asks me carefully. His voice has no warmth in it, but there’s no accusation either. It’s empty. Expressionless. Devoid of real interest. A platitude to polite conversation.
I watch his face.
A beat passes.
Two.
I stand there and I just look at him.
It hurts when he looks back. Right into my eyes. Dead center.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t shuffle back in shame.
No hint of sheepishness.
He looks me right in the face as if he doesn’t smell like…
I hate him. I hate him more in this moment than I did when I caught him with his tramp.
My fingers ball into fists. “Where were you?”
“At work.” He holds my gaze for a beat. As if daring me to contrast him. As if blatantly lying to my face is something he’s used to. Like riding a bike. One leg on. One leg off. Practice. Habit. It doesn’t even matter anymore. “Why aren’t you at the store?”
My heart starts thumping fast.
Rage builds and builds.
Snaps.
Overwhelms.
The agony pushes me out of my own body until I can barely breathe. Because I can see it. Can see her on him just like I can smell the cloud of her perfume.
In my head, I watch her kiss him. Hold his hand. Pull his body on top of her. In my head, I watch her claim what belongs to me. Bawl out his name in a way that belongs to me too.
I see her here.
The Barbie from yesterday. Or someone else. It doesn’t matter.
She’s here.
In my house.
Again.
She’s all over my husband. A film on his pale skin. A cast around his arm. A shade on his lips that aren’t that red. That were never that red. Even for a white man.
If I close my eyes, I can even smell beyond her. The scent of them. What he did to her. What their scents mingling and mixing has created. A fragrance my husband bred outside of me. Outside of us.
Fading footsteps prompt me to open my eyes. It’s Jerrison walking away.
How funny.
Even when he’s not right in front of me, the smells remain like ghosts. Haunting. Malicious. They chase me when I run to him. Taunt me when I wrap my fingers around his biceps and jerk him around.
I drop my hand because it’s dirty. I clip my nose because it stinks. “Don’t lie to me, Jerrison.”
“Lie about what?”
“You were with her!”
“What is wrong with you?” His eyes narrow. Sharpen. There’s accusation in his tone. You’re crazy, woman.
Crazy.
Why do they always call us crazy? As if they can take the truth and bend it to their will. As if our instincts are the ones leading us astray when those instincts are only trying to protect us from making bigger mistakes.
Even as I sense what he’s doing, a stupid part of me latches onto Jerrison’s lies. It’s the part that wants to be his one and only, even if it comes at the price of my sanity. It’s the part of me that made room for him in more than just my body. Down deep to my bones. To my soul.
I want to deny the smells on him. I’m desperate to remember what it was like when those smells never invaded our home. Our marriage.
Deny, deny, deny.
Fake it, till you make it, Harriet.
But we’ve come too far. The stench is too strong, and it’s broken everything we are. Snapped it up by the roots. Hadn’t I known for months what this smell meant? That he stopped being mine for however long it took him to undress. Pull on protection. Slip inside someone else. To lick and kiss and screw someone who wasn’t me?
“I smell her on you.” My nails dig into his arm. Sharp claws of anger. “I smell that you were with her.”
He yanks his arm back. Annoyance snaps through his blue eyes. Beautiful eyes. So pure and so capable of deceit. “What are you talking about?”
“Stop it!”
“Harriet!”
“For once in this miserable marriage, would you tell me the truth?” My voice doesn’t belong to me. Not to this woman. Ambitious. Capable. Put-together. Stylish. A leader in her field. This screaming banshee in a world of hurt can’t be me.
“The hell is wrong with you, Harriet?” Jerrison stares at me with horror. “Seriously? Are you sick or something?” He tries to place a hand on my forehead.
I jerk back. My shoulders heave. Up and down. Up and down. “Why were you with her?” The question’s changed because I’m not asking confirmation for what I already know. “Did you think I was lying when I said I would leave you? You think I won’t go, Jerrison?”
His face shifts in an instant. From calm assurance to brisk annoyance. Tightening eyebrows. Pursed lips. Eyes that narrow in exasperation. “You’re not going anywhere, Harriet.”
“Says who?” I scream. “Who the hell are you to tell me where I can and cannot go, Jerrison?”
“You need to calm down.” His words are delivered through gritted teeth. Thick blonde hair tumbles over his forehead as he runs a hand through his locks. He’s on the edge of his patience.
Too bad.
I’m beyond the edge of mine.
I shove him. Black fists against a white shirt. Small hands against a mountain. “What were you doing with her? What were you doing?”
“Stop it.” He snatches my hand. Curses. “I took care of the problem.”
“What problem?” I freeze. My hair’s wild around my shoulders. My body’s trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Please give me something I can believe.It’s a plea so thick I can taste it in my mouth.
“She called when I was at the office. Said she was going to sue you.” His thumb caresses my knuckles. Swipes up over dark skin and then slides down again to the beginning of my wrist. “I couldn’t let that happen. I went over to talk her out of it. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” I hear the tears in my voice. Hear the desperation.
“Yes.” He caresses my cheek. “I swear.”
My heart deflates in relief before it starts picking up again. “You could have at least told me you were going to see her.”
The tightening expression returns to his face. “Really?” His hand falls away. Then he pulls his entire body away, taking his warmth with him. “I go to all that trouble and you’re still complaining?”
My fingers dig into my dress and my voice climbs to a fevered pitch. “It’s not my fault you screwed her, Jerrison! Forgive me if I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her.”
“Then you should at least trust me.” He slaps his chest.
I burst out laughing.
A vein pops out in his head. “I just saved you from getting sued and instead of saying thanks, this is how you’re going to behave? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’d be in if I didn’t talk Cindy out if it?”
“I told you not to say that tramp’s name in front of me.” I stare a hole into his face and imagine what it would feel like to punch him solid on the jaw.
He clenches up. Every part of him turning hard as flint until he’s unrecognizable. Until I can no longer see the man who once visited me with lunch everyday, picked me up from the gym where I worked out, and promised me the stars.
“I’m going to cool down,” Jerrison snaps, turning swiftly and grabbing his car keys.
“We’re not finished talking yet!” I charge after him. “Jerrison, we’re not—”
The door slams shut in my face.
