Perfume
Perfume
By Stewart M.
I smelled your perfume where I sat in an aisle seat of a 747 but it was worn by a short and dumpy stewardess and every time she passed me with her carts of drinks I could not stop myself from remembering the time I first smelled it on you after I had skinned my knee climbing a wall to get to a vine laden with purple flowers just three minutes before you arrived at the café so radiant and with that perfume which seemed to emanate from the nape of your neck tucked in under your remarkable dark curls that were so thick they remained damp hours after you showered and then you asked about my torn pants and I glanced sheepishly up at the high growing vine and then down at the small bouquet in your hand and with a deep inhalation I kissed the side of your neck and smelled your perfume so sweet and so clean and that was the same scent I smelled in the plane returning home and damn it shook my smug conviction that I had forgotten you through means of booze and beach and happy Caribbean women because there was your perfume hanging in the air and it was ripping off the band aid of my fake cure and creating a wound anew while I was running down my list of half baked excuses for the sabotage I created and trying to feel some genuine confidence in that wreckage but when I got off that plane I went directly to your apartment I do not know why and with my bags in my hands I stood outside your window in the harsh wind and saw you silhouetted by a light against the closed blinds and you were brushing your hair with a tenderness that struck me hard and again the smell of your perfume came to me but this time I was only imagined while I watched you there and did nothing but stand in the cold wind and despair.