"Ronzoni? Damn... no Barilla...?" I muttered, almost incredulously, as I tossed the package back on the shelf with a little more force than necessary. I've only used Barilla for meals at home. Always had since I was a little girl.

The clicking of my heels on the linoleum stood out against the hum of the AC in this little bodega, the shopping basket digging into my forearm. Somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed, a man yelled something unintelligible in Italian—the sounds of the lively buzz of the Bronx were almost like white noise in my ears.

"Well, shit," I perused the shelves for other options. Ritchie was coming home tonight from his little stint in Europe and probably craves my homemade spaghetti. Was it London or Brussels again? I don't remember. He doesn't really tell his ma what he's up to these days... "Should I make risotto instead...?"

A familiar but long-forgotten scent cut through the muskiness of the bodega air. Cetalox. Amber. Wood. Nostalgic.

I whirled around so fast it almost gave me whiplash. It had to be you. After all, who else wears that scent like a second skin? But it was like a phantom, that faint note of the bygone days gone before I could catch sight of who it belonged to...

"Silly me..." I sighed, shaking my head with a hint of amusement, and resumed my shopping, letting my fingertips trail over canned tomato sauces, packages of rice, bags of fried snacks. I hummed a jazzy tune absentmindedly, probably one of Eddie's.

But that scent was back again, curling around me like the Marlboros I smoke—one of my many vices. And this time, when I turned my gaze away from the overstocked shelves, it landed on you at the other end of the aisle, brows furrowed in concentration as you read the label of some pastina box. Older now, more sophisticated, but you were still so you.

God... a decade must've passed since I last saw you. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Yet, here you are again...