Cream in a glass bottle.

It once all began from the hempy cream with which he smelled, his hands, clothes, thoughts and cigars. I adored to sit in the pitch darkness and look at his arms with tenderness, at the process that he loved more than me - he rubbed his hands measured with that cream, carefully covering each and every crack and wound. When mornings his hands were incredibly gentle and soft like it was velvet. But with the approach of nights they became harder than sandpaper, which left only scars and abrasions on my face and soul.

I once got so tired of that silence between us and that pain in my heart so I ran away from his home, breaking that small bottle made of Murano glass which carried that hapless cream. Leaving I felt all those unspoken words, stories and confessions in the air, which where told by us so many times in our heads but never with our tongues during three long years. Three years of moral limbo and sun stripes on the black floor.

And now it is me telling you this ridiculous story and doing one ritual every evening - I sit and gently rub my weather-beaten hands feeling some special smell in this room. The smell that previously stupefied his deceitful mind - the smell of hempy cream.