Burberry

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.

Exhale.