The smell of lemons drifted through the house.
josh
It must be Thursday, he thought to himself, as the sharp sweetness hit his nose. Every Thursday since the day they met she had made lemon drizzle cake. He’d never been able to tell her that he despised baked goods, she loved the tradition of it too much.
He opened the window and got back to work. An hour or so later he went downstairs but couldn’t see her anywhere. The cake sat delicately on the counter next to a note. She was leaving, for good. Apparently she could no longer bear his rigid, weekly demand for baked goods. Ironic.