Page 61 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

It wasn't one of those obnoxious aftershaves that screamed from across the room before the man wearing it even opened his mouth. No, his scent stayed close, as though it understood the value of silence. Cedar, fresh rain soaking into old timber, a faint trace of tobacco hiding somewhere beneath it all, followed by something impossibly clean that reminded me of expensive soap and crisp cotton left drying beneath winter sunlight. There was also coffee not because the sweater smelled like coffee, but because somehow... he did. Like he'd been carrying a mug around for so many years the scent had simply accepted permanent residency.

I buried my nose against the collar. Making sure the smell is still as overwhelming as when I took it. Just for science. Obviously.

"You've sniffed it four times."

Frank's voice drifted lazily across the bedroom.

"I counted."

"I counted six," Gerald corrected.

"You can't count."

"I absolutely can."

"You once counted Rosemary twice."

"She moved."

"She was standing two inches to the left."

"Exactly."

I sighed into the fabric.

"Could the two of you argue at a lower volume?"

"We're inside your head."

Frank sounded offended.

"We literally can't."

Fair point. You're probably wondering why I listen to garden gnomes. That's a fair question but I'm wondering why you are still reading. Yet...here we both are.

Gerald climbed onto the windowsill, his little ceramic boots knocking softly against the wood as he folded his arms across his chest.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "most people borrow sugar."

"I borrowed a sweater."

"You stole a sweater."

"I borrowed it indefinitely."

Frank pinched the bridge of his tiny stone nose.

"Oh wonderful."

"What?"

"She's using legal terminology now."

"I resent that."

"You should."

I ignored them. Mostly because they were right and partly because they knew they were right.