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Smell my leftovers

Something on my shirt smells delicious.

You have this situation, right? I wore this shirt, like, last week or something. I have no idea what this is. But it smells great. You’re delicious, scarily-large-molecules-that-are-clearly-not-organic-because-they-have-not-decayed.

I don’t know why, but it doesn’t make me that crazy not to know what it is. I own it, whatever it is; it’ll most likely be back around in rotation. Unless it’s a sample, in which case I’m just screwed. It’s weird that it doesn’t bug me. Sometimes I decide I want to wear something, and I can’t find it, and I can’t stop worrying at it until I find it, like a popcorn hull in my tooth. But this – mostly doesn’t bug me.

No, mostly I enjoy it. This is a lovely waft of base notes, a half-finished sketch, as if the rest of the charcoal drawing on the sidewalk has been washed away by rain, or time.

It’s even more delightful when it’s a serendipitous combination of perhaps two perfumes – what was last on the shirt, and what is fading on my skin. I’m not much for layering, but two extreme drydowns together can be glorious – like a sunset reflecting off a bank of clouds in the last minutes of the day.


Image is “empty plate” by Graham Holliday, via Flickr. Used under Creative Commons license; some rights reserved.

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