Sage

His name was Sage, but he smelled like cinnamon. I could never forget it. He loved cinnamon everything—cinnamon gum, cinnamon candles, cinnamon sticky buns. He had great oral hygiene, as you can imagine; there wasn’t a day in my life that I was with him where he didn’t smell or taste like cinnamon. I met him while he was buying some gum, actually. He came in my aisle with five packs of Big Red. I thought it was weird in a cute way. I could smell it on his breath as he read my name tag—Madeline—out loud. Like that little French girl with the blue coat and the sunhat, right? he asked with his cute smile and cinnamon breath. He was blond; he had a cleft in his chin. Pretty light brown eyes, kind of a tawny color. I’d know his face anywhere. I could never forget it. Our first date was at Cinnabon. He got three sticky buns for us; two for him, one for me. I only laughed because it was never hard to make him happy—all you had to do was go out and get him something made with cinnamon. Our first kiss was in a candle shop—he bought five cinnamon candles that day, one for each room of his apartment; his bedroom, his kitchen, his living room, both of his bathrooms. His mouth and his tongue were both smooth and tasted like—can you guess?—cinnamon. It was funny though, because he never told me how much he liked cinnamon. It’s not like he had to, but I figured it would come up eventually. But it didn’t. Sometimes I wanted to ask him how come he liked cinnamon so much, but I didn’t get the chance to; he’d up and left me before I could. He just packed his bags, packed his smile, packed his cinnamon, and flew to the other side of the country. He didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t know why he left; I didn’t think I wanted to, either. I wanted to remember him exactly how he was, all cinnamon kisses and pretty smiles. I could never forget it. His name was Sage, but he smelled like cinnamon.