Her smell haunts me. She uses perfume like I use whiskey, a few drops is never enough. I follow her scent the way a small child follows the smell of cooking bacon into the kitchen in the morning: sleepily and with an awoken hunger. I hear a page turn as I turn into the study. She doesn't even notice me she's so completely ensconced in her romance novel. She always tries to hide herself away when she reads them. She doesn't like when I tease her about it. We all have guilty pleasures, although some desires are more damned than others. I pull out my camera and snap some photos of her. Her robe is subtly hanging off her shoulder. She's playing with her hair. She's delicious. I know the photos won't come out, it's too dark. They'll help keep this memory alive though, that's all that really matters.