The Last Exhale by Julia Blues

two men wheel the now empty table out of the room, leaving Rene to herself again. She unzips the bag, stares at the man’s body for about five minutes. Walks around him, views him from different angles. She takes one of his stiff hands in hers, closes her eyes, says a sincere prayer before rinsing his body with hot water and bleach, sprays him with more water and a soapy solution, and again with water.
    I nearly gag as the smell of death begins to invade my nostrils. I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt, try to quickly fill my nostrils with the scent of life.
    Rene slides the bag from under the man, rinses and places it in a bin with other bags to be sanitized for later use. She then covers the man with a white sheet.
    I watch through a storage room window as she tosses her mask and soiled gloves in the trash. She removes her goggles, sprays them with a clear solution before placing on the shelf for another day’s use. Her lab coat comes off next. It’s placed on a rack and sprayed with a can of Lysol. She turns off the classical music and lights. Her footsteps stop in front of the door I’m behind. We’re so close I can hear her hesitated breathing.
    My heart pounds heavily against my chest.
    â€œRene,” one of the male voices calls out.
    â€œI’m coming,” she says.
    Finally, I’m able to breathe again as I hear her footsteps fade in the dark. A few minutes go by before I step out of hiding and into the hallway.
    I find myself creeping up the stairs to the owner’s office. A shallow light reflects off the hardwood floor underneath the door. I turn the knob slowly, see my wife nursing a half-filled glass of clear liquid.
    We make eye contact.
    â€œWhat took you so long to come up?” she questions.
    â€œHow’d you know I was here?” I do a poor job hiding my voyeuristic shame.
    â€œI smelled you.”
    The fact that she could pick up my scent in a place saturated with death surprises me. Then again, her nose is trained for the aroma of death. Anything smelling different would put one on alert.
    My eyes stare in her direction. Her face holds much more softness than Sydney’s, but her eyes look as vacant as a midnight sky with no stars.
    The window behind her desk is open. I can see the moon’s reflection ripple on top of the lake. A burning candle is on the windowsill. Another one’s on her desk. A third one is on the table, burning next to her drink. One tranquil, one citrus, another earthy. A mixture of moods floating in one room.
    Rene’s eyes are on mine when I notice an open cabinet next to the door. Inside are about twenty or so different bottles of hard liquor. I guess this is how she decompresses at the end of a day filled with death. And all this time I thought that’s what the baths and red wine were for.
    â€œThose are for nights like tonight,” she answers my silent inquisition.
    I sit on the sofa next to her. “I saw you downstairs with the body. Saw you hold his hand.”
    â€œWesley Washington.”
    â€œSounds like you knew him.”
    She nods. “He was a cop who worked for us every weekend on traffic patrol for the last four years. I could always depend on Wes. He was a good worker.” The glass of clear liquid comes up to her lips. She swallows slowly. “A good friend.”
    The way she says that pinches at my ego. A husband’s supposed to be a good friend, not another man. “How’d he die?”
    She holds the drink in her hand, but doesn’t drink. Just holds it and stares. “Cancer.” The drink that temporarily rinses all pain away nears Rene’s lips. She takes the rest in one hard swallow.
    I want to reach my arm over her shoulder and pull her close, do for her what she depends on the drink to do. She gets up before I have the chance to do anything.
    She stands by the window gazing out at the man-made lake. “Why’d you move out?”
    I knew the question