Gene loved the smell of leather. He loved the smell of Heather wearing leather. He loved Heather in leather and the smell and the idea of the smell and the smell of the smell always left him crazed and wanting. He couldn't help himself. He didn't know how.

Heather hated Gene. She hated the idea of Gene and the smell of Gene and the smell of the smell of the leather Gene always wore. She had hated him forever. She always would. She could never forgive him for that one thing, years ago. She couldn't even remember anymore. She knew it had something to do with her mother and a letter. She knew it was Gene's fault she couldn't remember. Gene and the smell of his leather.

She knew what to do, knew how to end it. She waited for Gene when she knew he would be waiting. She wore what he wanted. She endured the oily smell. She endured because she could, because she would. She saw him coming. She smiled. She gestured. She waited.

The smell hit him first, then the sight, then the smile. He knew what it was for. He could remember. He remembered the letter. The look on her mother's face. He could remember and the smell of the smell and the smile and the want and the idea of wanting made him falter. He could step no further. He looked with longing at his Heather, his wanting and his wishing - and all of it for nothing.

She had him.