The heavy chemical smell wafted over to where I sat.

What was it? So damned familiar…

Nail polish. That’s what it was.

Her nails had always been a point of contention between us. I remembered her, sitting on the kitchen counter, right between the sink and the toaster, always a different bottle of garish, sparkly pigment with a ridiculous name open next to her. Always the same look of intense concentration on her face, the same oppressive smell lingering forever afterwards. She would look up and see me looking at her, and then give me that same lopsided grin I fell in love with, and wiggle the paper towels stuffed between her toes before returning her meticulous attentions to her digits.

She would then inevitably let them chip, leaving ragged, chromatic  oases on her fingers. She would grumble and mutter darkly, and call me a ‘Nail Nazi’ when I would chide and cajole her to ‘take care of them, would you? They’re getting obnoxious.’ This would always lead to giggles, and supplications for forgiveness that I would refuse. Eventually she would relent, taking up her perch with a different bottle of enamel that would match neither her toes or anything she would wear.

Damnit, I missed her.

The little things she would do.  I could go for days, and she would never cross my mind. But then something would catch me off guard, something stupid, like the smell of nail polish, and I would miss her so much I could feel an actual ache in my chest.

Where did she paint her nails now? Would she pick up if I called her to ask? Has she even thought of me lately? Does she regret what happened between us as much as I do? I could feel my heart rate shoot up as I started pondering helplessly, mouth dry, my knuckles bloodless.

What would I say if I did call? I couldn’t just call and start up with questions about her nail enamel, could I? There were a million things I wanted to ask, I didn’t even know where to start. I cringed as my mind wandered; what would she think if she could see me, sitting here, working myself into a lather thinking about her?  The irony was not lost on me.  She would probably laugh. But would it be that full belly laugh, or that high, frantic cackle where she simply couldn’t breathe from the hilarity of it? Fuck, I missed her laugh. If I could just work up the nerve to call her, I could always make her laugh, probably still could, if I tried-

“It’s just nail polish, silly, not a nudie mag. You don’t have to get so excited.” Katie smiled up at me from the floor, between the fridge and the dishwasher, her manicure tools lined up meticulously in a tile of the linoleum. Yellow smiley faced spacers winked up at me from between her toes, and her hands were delicate on the small brush.

I spotted the aromatic offender, a bottle of something neutral and ruddy, probably called something like dusty rose, or sunset glow, picked to be unobtrusive and match everything in Katie’s closet.

“You know I hate the smell of that stuff.”

“Really? You’ve never said anything about it.”

“Kate, it gives me a splitting headache. Do it outside.” I was surprised at myself, I wasn’t the type to snap like that.

“But I’m almost finished with-“

“Kate, outside or not at all. I’m serious.” Her eyes were hurt and questioning. I don’t remember ever being harsh with her. Katie was so fragile, so delicate, nothing like her. How could she understand what that smell brought back, what she had meant to me? How could Kate even begin to know what had happened before her? She just quietly gathered up her things and went out into the twilight air to fend off the evening mosquitoes and heat.

I was left there, with the smell of memories. Sweet, acrid, acidic memories. The sharp bitter taste sat on my tongue as heavily as the tang of the acetone in the nail enamel. I reached for the phone. She would understand. She always had.