Roommaid

by Sariah Wilson

I sighed. “Orb weavers.” “Did you just say orb weavers?” he repeated, laughter peppering his voice. “They put out this pheromone that makes moths fly to their deaths, and Delia asked us what that scent would be for us. This, you, you’re that scent. You smell like freedom. Possibilities.” “Funny,” he said. “I was just thinking that you smelled like all of my tomorrows. My future. My wife.” “That’s closer. Next time, make it a question.” The next time, he did.