She buys cheap shampoos for the smell. She’s got bottles of the stuff. It hurts your nose to sniff them, they’re all so chemical. I came out of the bathroom saying that I didn’t know how she could use that cheap shit, that I was surprised her hair wasn’t falling out. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘I like the smells.’ She’s got nothing to worry about really. Her hair’s long, straight and dark, and smooth like engine oil. She has good genes. I sat near to her on the couch. ‘Here,’ she said, offering her hair: ‘I just washed it.’ I told her I’d smelled it plenty of times. ‘When?’ she said. When I walk behind you, I said. When I’m with you in the supermarket queue, or when you stand up to leave a room. She had a wicked smile going on. She leaned across and pulled me over. She’s very strong. I started laughing. Her head was damp, and some hair went in my mouth. It tasted clean, and smelled of bubblegum. It reminded me of the 70s, and summer afternoons after school. Her neck was warm and soft, and smelled of sweet milk. She held me tight, till I stopped laughing, and then she turned her face, and her eyes looked like brimming inky pools. Her mouth was parted. It was like a beautiful sexual organ, pink and wet and clean, and full of vitality. And that’s all there was then. Just her mouth, and the smell of bubblegum.