You Won't Believe What Happened by Mariia Skyrta

I knock at the door.

When it opens I try to sound as carelessly, as the person who hasn't disappeared for a month: "You won't believe what happened!"

I don’t remember when exactly this smell appeared in our home. At first, it was an intangible odour, too elusive to catch. Then it grew a little stronger and I could distinguish some notes of spice and lime. At this point I thought it might be coming from the neighbours, through the venting tubes. I covered all the venting holes with cardboards, making sure to tape them as tight as possible, but the smell still remained. It took over all the space in our apartment. I couldn't feel the scent of hyacinth bouquet Mike gave me a few days ago any more. All I could sense was that damn sour smell.

It grew even stronger when Mike came home in the evening. I leaned to hug him as he closed the apartment door behind him, and the smell struck me like a lightning. I froze halfway with my hands raised. It felt like the world slowed down around us. I watched die corners of his lips falling down from a smile little by little, his eyebrows raising In confusion and his hand dropping with a bouquet of hyacinths, my favourite flowers.

"What's wrong?", I watched the words come out of his mouth still slowed down.

I didn't know what was wrong. That night I washed all our clothes, threw all the windows wide open and the smell was finally gone. At least I thought so.

The next day I decided to go shopping. Little trinkets have always lightened up my heart. Besides, I needed an aroma diffuser in case the smell returns.

I saw Mike at the comer of die street he was standing in front of die flower shop. He's probably having a lunch break now, or else he would be at work, as he's supposed to. I’m going to take him by surprise, sneak up behind him, cover his eyes and say:" Guess who".

The excitement changes to shock In a trice, when I come closer. The smell, I feel it again. It comes from the pretty girl, worker in the flower shop. She smiles at my husband with all her teeth and asks: "As usual?".

I changed my mind. I don't want to cover his eyes with my hands any more, instead I want to latch them around his throat. I want to shout out loud enough for the whole street to hear: "How could you? How could you come home with the smell of another woman's perfume all over you? How could you derail our happy life that easy?". But I don't I turn around and walk away.

In half an hour all my things are packed and the taxi is waiting for me outside. I stayed at my friend's place for a week, then rented a flat. I couldn't sleep well, and couldn't eat - everything seemed tasteless. And I couldn't pick up the phone, when Mike called -1 was so mad at him.

I finally had to go to the doctor, as I still couldn't eat and was close to total exhaustion. The doctor, a respectable middle-aged man, listened to me carefully for fifteen minutes and then wrote just one word in the diagnosis line. Parosmia. He said It’s not dangerous for my health, but I have to deal with the smell distortion now.

Beef steak now smells like rotten meat. Fresh baked cookies have a strange musty odour. And the hyacinths, my favourite flowers, they smell like a mixture of sour and spice, exactly the scent that I felt in our apartment.

I've never felt so relieved and ashamed at the same time as I felt while standing in front of our apartment door. I raised my hand and knocked brokenly, and my heart beat in unison with this sound. I have only one question to ask:" Could you forgive me?”.