They say scent is the sense that is most strongly tied to memory...
He called and I hung up on him; I couldn't stand his words anymore. He gave me permission to shred his stuff, and I bee-lined for the pile as soon as his almost-Southern drawl was out of my ear. I had his shirts in one hand and a knife in the other. I tried to muster the image of him standing in it, his once sweet tongue flinging insensitive remarks at my ears. I tried to hate him. I really did... But all I could smell was his cologne. It permeated everything that was his, and brought back those things that I tried to forget. I suddenly could remember how he smelled in the morning, and how his scent clung to the bed after he got up. I remember kissing his neck and my nostrils being filled with his aroma: Hollister and Newports. I remembered a sleuth of random things and events: how his skin looked on mine, how his hand could span my back, him pushing me out of the way in October, how he bit my ear, the star underwear that I bought him, me trying to find the perfect words to write to him. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I sat down, buried my face in his shirt, and let it all loose. I had sworn that I'd never cry over another boy again, and yet tears were coming down my arms, flowing and pooling on the table. Why? Because I'd been let down by yet another guy with no vision. Because I'd let myself fall for a beautiful man. Because I was Ganymede Betrayed, and I'd always be fucked no matter what.