The smell of their cologne lingers on the curtains and sheets, hanging in the air on every corner of your home. It smells like a bit of bottled sunshine and Alpine flowers mixed in with a fresh, woody something, and for some reason, cut grass. It clings stubbornly to your skin and you want to rub your whole body until it’s raw and red and fumigate your entire house–anything to be rid of the smell–but you decide you’ll do that after you shove the envelope of legal documents—complete with the legal seal, so they know you’re not faking—down their throat.
And then, willing or not, they're going to sign them.
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