Before Layla washed the sheets, she always smelled them.

It was an odd, mixed odor that constantly changed every day. It smelled of the three of them and sweat and sex and blood.

The first trace was of herself, a green taste of flowers, honey, and summer days under a leafy tree.

Warren was in the second breath, smelling like fire and wood smoke. He was heat itself, a steaming radiator on a cold day or the blast of air in an enclosed car.

Will's aroma was a soft spring breeze. The clouds he flew through left near-imperceptible traces of rain, but also left his own scent of the sweat that came from hard labor.

But there was also blood, a harsh metallic smell that brought bile to Layla's throat whenever one or both of her lovers stumbled in, injured in what seemed like a million different places until she lay them down and healed them with whatever she could.

Far underneath was the cleanness of the laundry detergent. No bleach or scent, Layla wouldn't stand for anything unnatural, she always put in a few sprigs of some of the fresh lavender she kept growing around the house.

Her favorite smell was that of sex. It was where her green, Warren's fire and Will's air would mingle and come out as something completely different. The sweat and salt would be pressed into the sheets by the weight of their bodies until it was just them, wholly and completely, with no pretension or lies.

Layla closed the lid to the washer and pressed the start button.

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