I hate this

My spidey smell is back.

Yesterday, I took myself out for a foot rub, thinking - I think rightly - that at this particular moment it is okay for me to focus on being calm and relaxed. While I was there another woman came in, causing a fuss, unpleaseable, but even more noticeable - at least to me - was that I could smell her breath from across the room. Over the evening I could smell other things too - winter coats on the subway. Pine-sol as a I passed an office building.

Now, I'm sitting in the den of our apartment, and I can smell the yellow roses in the living room.

I hate this, because no matter how much detachment I maintain, no matter how much realism, when something like this happens it means that hope is sneaking in. And I hate having hope sneak in. It's hope's fault if, on Wednesday, I am lying on the bathroom floor weeping and crying "My baby my baby my baby," which has happened before, after a negative beta, and so I can only assume that it could happen again. That's hope's fault. If I tell myself for an absolute fact that this process didn't work, that there is no hope, that I am doing this for certainty or closure and for no other reason, and if I truly believe it, then shouldn't I be protected from disappointment?

At least a little?

I wish I couldn't smell these roses.