The way the linoleum felt cold under my palms, kneeling in the st. mark's hall after everyone left, the room reeking of cheap coffee and everyone else's sadness, but not hers, not that lingering scent that's fading from the sweaters. New grief smells different, sharper maybe, like a clean wound before the rot sets in and I wonder if that's what I smelled on her, once, before. Before I knew it was coming, or maybe I did and just pretended not to, maybe we all do, until we're kneeling on cold floors wondering why the hell the world keeps turning.