by Karen Crawford

She doesn’t hear the sneeze-fart before he butchers “Heartbreak Hotel” in the shower. He doesn’t see her wiry grays clogging the drain.

She doesn’t smell the Vicks in his nose. The cheese of his socks. He doesn’t taste the burn in her brisket. The tart of her pie.

She doesn’t hear his dentures click when he says the hostess has a nice smile. He doesn’t see her wink at the waiter.

She doesn’t smell old spice on his collar. He doesn’t taste cherry gloss on her lips.

But sometimes when they touch, they remember the new in each other’s eyes.

Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. Recent work has been included in Best Microfiction Anthology 2025, Gooseberry Pie, Tiny Molecules, Roi Faineant Press and elsewhere. She is a multi-Pushcart, Best of the Net nominee and longlisted in Wigleaf‘s Top 50. Find her on Bluesky @karenc.bsky.social