Inhale.
My friends bought me that perfume for Christmas, four days
before I met you. They did a good job picking it out, especially since I am
very picky about scents. At the time, I only had three outfits and a month to
travel, so I was happy to have something that could make me feel fancy. I was
excited to wear it when I saw you.
Exhale.
It’s February, and I’m on the bus to the airport. You stand
outside and blow me a kiss goodbye. A single tear rolled down my cheek, and at
first I didn’t know why. I then realized it was because I knew that I would
never see you again.
Inhale.
Getting ready to go out, and I am wearing that scent,
pulling it together with ripped stockings and a tight dress. The lights of
Berlin shine in your eyes, and we feel superior for not going to the Brandenburg
with the rest of the tourists on New Years. We’re laughing as fireworks go off
around us, and I look at you and I think I’m in love.
Exhale.
It’s been months, I check my email daily but hear nothing. I
move on, and I suppose you must have as well. Perhaps I was only a vacation
fling, a high that comes from travel and adventure and escape. You are as
familiar with those feelings as I am. My feeling of loss that day in February sneaks
up on me when I least expect it to.
Inhale.
I spray it on my neck, wearing the same dress I wore almost
two years ago in Berlin. Everything comes rushing back to me: the light in your
eyes, the softness of your skin, the intimacy of your touch. I got an email
yesterday saying you were thinking of coming to see me, despite the two years
and 2,000 miles that have separated us. I smile and let myself hope.
