The scent of a woman

You smell like the moment you meet the person you think might be The One.

CHENNAI : You smell like a woman,” she said, reaching over to hug me as I got dressed to leave. I’m suddenly acutely aware of the perfume clinging to my skin, hair and the fur of my coat. “You smell like a woman,” I thought to myself the whole of next day. No one had ever said that to me. Sure, I’d been told that I smelled good or that my perfume was nice. It took me back to a time when I was sampling perfumes at a department store where an older gentleman came over to say that he admired the way I leaned in to get a whiff of the perfume I had sprayed on my wrists. It was so feminine, he said. 

You smell like a woman, I thought. You smell like the first time you wore high heels, like the warm enveloping hug from your best friend. You smell like flowers and musk. You smell like falling in love with a stranger on the street, like a quick drink which turns into hours. You smell like a dance floor. You smell like vintage stores full of hidden treasures, like camping — snowfall and a fireplace. You smell like the end of Casablanca. Or maybe Gone With The Wind. 

You smell like the moment you meet the person you think might be The One. You smell like the heartbreak when you realise that it isn’t true. You smell like spring. You smell like money.
You smell like the seashore. You smell like gloom.

You smell like the man you’ll marry, even though you may not have met him yet. You smell like fancy silks and you smell like Sunday. You smell like the cold nip in the January air when your car won’t start. You smell like you did when you were a teenager, like sticky lipgloss and cheap body mist. You smell like the bottle of cheap gin that you and your friends once stood in a circle to drink. 

You smell like letting go.
You smell like your mother, like your father, even like your grandfather. You smell like a movie theatre, like a night at Winter Wonderland – syrupy sweet, fluorescent. You smell like Easter. You smell like Christmas morning when you’re a child. You smell like petrichor. You smell like the first time someone stomped all over your heart. You smell like everyone you’ve ever loved.

You smell like surrender.
You smell like a woman. You smell like the newspaper, like the fog. You smell like a woman in a Stanley Kubrick movie. You smell like laughter. You smell like a day at the beach where the waves lap up eagerly at your feet. You smell like the soft sounds of jazz filling up the room. You smell like night. You smell like day. You smell like everything you have ever been.