It was not the quesadilla, the sloppy concoction of flat and goo. No, she decided, it was most certainly not the quesadilla itself, but the idea of the quesadilla, the meta-dilla that offended her. Even now, even hours after lunch, six washings with perfumed soap, six applications of scented lotion, and in between all that an hour at the firing range. Lavender? No. Gunpowder? No. Only the crass grease and onion stink.
Lovers, too, were like this. Long after they should have gone, they persisted with deserted panties, apostrophes of basin-beached hair. Now email and its hungrier cousins encroached on every absence. The heart grew annoyed, not fonder. She longed for the gentleness of memory in all of this rotting truth.
This is a strange one to put into words, but at this moment I am enjoying a complex experience of scent. As I ponder this, it occurs to me that I spend quite a bit of time smelling things or remembering moments of my past via scents.
The scent experience right now is a combination of the fragrance of a pumpkin candle and the pages of a book open in front of me. It has transported me to my little apartment in the Tendernob, right around Christmastime, when my beloved and I first found these particular candles at a bookstore. In my little apartment, I would light the candle and read by it, drifting off with my nose in the book.
It isn’t all charming vignettes, however. Once I purchased the exact same deodorant brand I used in high school, and what ensued was two months’ worth of mornings bristling with hormone-fueled insecurity.
(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)