Scent of a Woman
He walked down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in the pockets of the faded denim jacket he wore. The sky was slate grey and promising rain. It was cold, and the breeze that rolled off the bay was frigid. All he wanted was to get back to his apartment and crank up the heat.
He was thoroughly engrossed in this thought when he smelled her. Well, not her, of course, because she’d been gone the last three years, but someone who wore her perfume. The alluring scent took him back to that day when she had first entered his world.
He had smelled her before he saw her. Soft and sweet, a fragrance that hinted of warm humid breezes and touches of honey, hot sunshine and the breath of the tropics.
Jasmine Forever, it was called, and after 8 months, that crystal-blue, teardrop-shaped bottle obtained only at a scandalous price found its home on his bathroom vanity and its fragrance permeated the apartment. It was on her clothes and in their bed, it graced the throw pillows on the couch and he could even smell it on the mail that lay on the carpet all day after being shoved through the mail slot.
The smell of her perfume was linked so closely with the woman herself that he could not imagine one without the other.
Then, one day, when he thought everything was perfect and he would be happy till the end of his days, she left. She packed her suitcase and her perfume, saying it would just never work out between them. He never saw her again.
Someone bumped into him and broke his reverie. He turned to see if he could spot the one wearing that tantalizing perfume, but there were far too many women milling through the crowd to single one out, and already, the fragrance that, to him, embodied love and warmth and happiness and contentment had wafted away into the cold February breeze.
He blinked, shoved his hands further into his pockets, and continued on his way home.
He was thoroughly engrossed in this thought when he smelled her. Well, not her, of course, because she’d been gone the last three years, but someone who wore her perfume. The alluring scent took him back to that day when she had first entered his world.
He had smelled her before he saw her. Soft and sweet, a fragrance that hinted of warm humid breezes and touches of honey, hot sunshine and the breath of the tropics.
Jasmine Forever, it was called, and after 8 months, that crystal-blue, teardrop-shaped bottle obtained only at a scandalous price found its home on his bathroom vanity and its fragrance permeated the apartment. It was on her clothes and in their bed, it graced the throw pillows on the couch and he could even smell it on the mail that lay on the carpet all day after being shoved through the mail slot.
The smell of her perfume was linked so closely with the woman herself that he could not imagine one without the other.
Then, one day, when he thought everything was perfect and he would be happy till the end of his days, she left. She packed her suitcase and her perfume, saying it would just never work out between them. He never saw her again.
Someone bumped into him and broke his reverie. He turned to see if he could spot the one wearing that tantalizing perfume, but there were far too many women milling through the crowd to single one out, and already, the fragrance that, to him, embodied love and warmth and happiness and contentment had wafted away into the cold February breeze.
He blinked, shoved his hands further into his pockets, and continued on his way home.