We were on the balcony. He was leaning on the flower box, distracted by the heat. His elbow slipped in, speckled his shirtsleeve with dirt. He brushed it off with his hands, and then the dirt was on his palms. He brushed his hands together and then the dirt was on his shoes. The whole thing was farcical and he had a silly grin on his face.
‘Smells like home.’ He said and his smile swept all the way up to the corners of his eyes.
He pushed his hands under my nose and I took a deep breath in.
It smelt like dirt.
When I smiled back, it barely reached my ears.
‘You should wash your hands,’ I said, turning away before he could see me wilt, ‘I don’t want any of that muck on my dress.’