Of Scents
A few years ago, I received a bottle of perfume as a gift from someone special. It was the perfect blend of scents and I loved it. I loved it so much that it displaced my old Paco Rabanne from its special place on the shelf. The same Paco Rabanne that walked into many rooms ahead of me, announcing my arrival in crisp, aquatic notes.
I was still in this honeymoon phase when I found another bottle of the same perfume while rummaging through the glove compartment of my brother’s car.
I couldn’t hide my excitement as I picked it up and started to sing its praise. For the simple man that he was, I was pleasantly surprised at my brother’s newly acquired taste for the finer things. I rambled on about how much I loved the fragrance, where it sat on my shelf, and other sorts of encomiums not usually showered on perfume bottles and fragrances when my brother responded with unfiltered disdain.
“This rubbish perfume?” I thoroughly detest it.”
“In fact,” he continued, “I have been using it as an air freshener for a while now hoping it would finish before I buy a new one so I don’t feel guilty for wasting my money. But the thing doesn’t appear to get the message.”
I was shocked, to say the least. I didn’t put up any defense. I just listened to him rant about how horrible the fragrance was.
