The heat broke that night, the rain relentless, full of spite. Lightening lit up a black sky and hail bounced off steaming bitumen. Streetlamps gave up and the unlucky cars slowed to a crawl, brake lights winking as tires whooshed through brimming puddles.

She sits on an old wicker chair that was once the favourite of a long gone family dog, and closes her eyes to the sounds of the rain hitting the roof, the soft thud as it hits damp soil. She can smell the inkiness of the night, the flicker of jasmine on the night air, as it retires from the cold. The night is a collision of scent; they pulse alongside each other in the coolness of the still.

There are the apricot roses that grow in the now tangled vegetable patch. It overgrew a long time ago, before she moved in, before he moved out, before they fell and couldn’t see a way to get back up again. They lift their heavy heads, the rain rolling off their thick, velvety petals. She should pick them, she should put them in a vase, an old vase, she has long since done away with their housewarming presents. She should let their buttery perfume crawl into her bedroom and wash him away.

He smelt of lemon and cinnamon, of pink pepper and fresh cut grass.

Somewhere, the last of the freesias are waving, their pink, white and yellow bonnets on sway backed stalks. They smell of sweet promises.

He left as the leaves were turning red, as the sweet smell of smoke curled into the crisp afternoon air and followed them into the bathroom, into bed, into the fabric of their clothes. He left as it began to get cold. The peach trees shed their leaves and stood, naked and embarrassed, and the frost lay its stifling blanket in the early hours of the morning.

He wrote as the sun began to grow warm, as the wood piles dwindled to leftover kindling, as it was no longer a rude shock to get out of bed. He was doing well, it was hot where he was, but he still didn’t know. If and when. She burnt his letter in the last fire of the winter, watched the paper curl to ash and she smelt lemon and cinnamon on the air, pink pepper and fresh cut grass.

He came back with the rain. The house smelt of the sun, the air full, the peaches clustered around the trunk, too ripe. The jasmine waited for the heat to succumb, its nectar at once ebullient and tender.

His footsteps are tired and heavy in the hall, all but drowned out by the sound of the rain on the roof, by the steady drum as it hits the soil. The apricot roses in his hand are full and open. Their scent does not wash him away, it brings him back.