Klara knew when to close her eyes and smile. Marko would hand her a cup of coffee, say it was freshly ground, and she would perform the brief pleasure that had once arrived by itself. She had been unable to smell since the previous winter. She could discuss it with people who had known her before. With a new man, she wanted at least a few meetings where she did not immediately have to explain what was missing.
Marko liked small surprises. He brought a sprig of lavender, soap from his travel bag, and a mandarin whose peel he had carefully removed in one piece. Klara listened to his descriptions and tried to summon the memory. Pretending was not difficult because he pressured her. Stopping was difficult because he looked sincerely pleased each time he brightened her morning. She found no fault in his attention, only no place to set down the truth.
On Sunday he took her to the market and bought a bouquet meant to be chosen with closed eyes. The seller told him to smell it, and he passed it to Klara. Around them people carried bags and pressed toward the stall. Klara kept looking at the flowers. "I can't," she said, first to the seller and then to him. Marko thought the scent bothered her. She had to repeat herself, this time in a complete sentence, in the middle of the market where she least wanted to talk about herself.
On a bench behind the market he asked why she had not told him. She replied that she was tired of faces growing sad as soon as people learned. She had wanted him to see something else first. Marko looked at the bouquet between them. He did not promise that everything would improve or ask her to list what she had tried. He asked which flowers she liked looking at. Klara pointed to a crooked stem rising above the others, stubbornly spoiling their neat shape.
Their meetings became less carefully prepared. Once Marko brought coffee he had boiled too long and admitted it immediately, as though relieved that he no longer needed a small achievement every time. Klara noticed how he held a glass by its very top and hummed while looking for his keys. She loved these things before thinking that she ought to love them as replacements for something lost.
In early spring she stayed at his place until morning. The sound of the grinder woke her from the kitchen. No aroma arrived, but his voice did, irritated by a stuck lid. Klara got up and carried two cups onto the balcony. When he handed her coffee, she did not close her eyes. She watched his sleepy face and asked why he had flour on his sleeve again. He was laughing before he could answer.