Traces...

She could still smell the lingering odor of cigarettes. It hung thick in the air, like walking through curtains of smoke. Even though she knew he hadn't lit up in her apartment it still permeated every space he had stood in. If it were a cartoon you would be able to see the wavy lines of scent trails where he walked. 

She felt like a bloodhound following the path through her place. A blood hound with a spray bottle of Febreeze. Stopping every once in awhile where he had stopped. The scent thick in those places. A wall of stench. Those spaces got an extra spray from the bottle. 

Soon her place smelled like faded cigarette smoke and almost overwhelming Febreeze scent. She opened the windows and turned on a small fan. 

Soon any trace of the smoke smell would fade away and she could pretend he had never been there. 

She used to tell people when it happened. When he had been there. But she had finally stopped that. There was no point. 

She could remember her sister rushing over when she had called her. Walking through her place (before she had moved out of that one) with her, agreeing that you could smell cigarette smoke. That you could follow it through the apartment. That it was there. 

But wasn't it more likely that a building maintenance person had been through? Maybe even the landlord for an inspection? Maybe she should change her locks?

She had moved instead. 

And moved again when it had happened again. This time coming home with a date and opening the door to that familiar wall of stench. "I didn't know you smoked. I know this is going to sound bad, but I have horrible asthma and cannot step into that apartment if I want to keep my lungs clear. This isn't going to work out." No matter how she tried to explain that she didn't smoke, she couldn't hide the smell.

She moved again.

Finally she had stopped moving every time it happened. Every time she would come home to find that he had been there. Had walked through her place. Had stopped to look through her things. Leaving pockets of smoke smell everywhere he'd been.

She had stopped moving. 

She had stopped telling people.

It hadn't done any good to move.

She just cleared the air and kept it to herself. 

Cleaning up his messes just like she had always done. 

She pulled out the scrap book and read the old newspaper clippings just to prove to herself that it had happened. He had died in that fire. Passing out with a still lit cigarette in his hand falling onto a stack of papers by the couch. Nobody else at home to drag his unconscious body out. That was what the official report said. 

He had passed out. The lit cigarette had hit the pile of papers. He hadn't been home alone. That was the only part they had missed. 

She used to worry that they would figure it out. That she would come home one day to find them waiting for her. To arrest her for his murder. Or at least for negligent homicide if they couldn't prove she had dropped the cigarette. Even all these years later there was still a part of her worried they'd figure it out. 

He obviously had.