Yesterday she had showered at Max’s house in the morning after staying the night for the first time while his family was away. Standing beside him under the hot water the many bottles had stared at her like those statues on Easter Island. Even his son’s SpongeBob SquarePants bottle seemed solemn. She, in her presence, had violated a tight, closed space. Max had handed her his Old Spice bar (his wife’s soap, she couldn’t help but notice, was all the way on the other side from his) and as she stood lathering her body she wondered what he would do if she reached out casually and squirted some of his wife’s product onto her hands. She wanted to use too much of it, leave it noticeably lighter. But she didn’t. So yesterday at work she had often paused while walking, while in the elevator, or sitting in her office chair, and she would smell him and for a moment be so confused before realizing it was just the scent of Old Spice. When she had gotten home she hadn’t showered but instead had purposely climbed into bed and nestled about to lie in the fans of her hair like a primitive mammal, making a small nest of herself, a home of minute, comfortable movements, until she couldn’t smell it anymore.

There’s a loud click from mid-center-left above his head and Kierk’s right index finger jumps all on its own.