L'Heure Bleue Guerlain 1912 Eau de Toilette

Just before the day grew a coat of violets, your verbal bomb detonated and reduced the world to rubble. As I knocked dusting powder from my cardigan, I saw that he had colored all of my wreckage at least 21 shades of blue. "Cause you're just a man, it's just what you do, your head in your hands as you color me blue...", I hummed. You laughed your throaty laugh and said: "At night, all cats are dark blue. You'll get over it eventually. I never promised you a rose garden". I would have been happy with garden carnations, I said. No, I didn't say it, I thought it. "A rose garden! What am I saying? Mediterranean landscapes, exuding the scent of orange blossom, nights emerging from warm blue and satin sheets in indigo, that's exactly what you would have thought appropriate". You said it with a patronizing smirk, but you couldn't hide the fact that an icy blue veil had settled over your tonka bean-coloured eyes. I thought about how you can look at someone and yet not see them and considered introducing myself and putting myself right. Instead, I watched as the blue hour, tender as the petals of the iris, settled over the street and my thoughts and hoped it would never end.
You sat there with your sky-blue, worn mohair sweater and your "I just got out of bed" hair, aware with every fiber of your being that only ravishingly good-looking people can afford such carelessness. You took a drag on your cigarette and blew blue vapor over our heads. "You melancholic," you said, "blue is your favorite mood. It's so sentimental, so vanilla... Melancholy is the avoidance of pain, the repression of black." For the first time, I felt seen by you. I stood up, put on my jacket and your cigarette, stubbed it out and walked through the door. I hummed: "And now I do, I wanna move, out of the black, into the blue..."

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"L'Heure Bleu" didn't want to let me put it into words, but send this story instead. I hope for your indulgence for the lack of fragrance description, fragrances sometimes have a mind of their own and prefer to hum narratives. Many thanks to Spatzl for this little blue pearl, which was intended to tell a melancholy story, but actually makes me very happy.