JCC No. 2 Jean-Charles de Castelbajac 1988 Eau de Parfum

Impatiently, I shuffle from one foot to the other... I can hardly wait for my encounter with the Grand Dame. Much has been said about her; the audience chose to either whisper in awe, faint in admiration, or remain in standing ovations. Today, she will graciously receive me. I've dressed quite elegantly, adorned myself with sophistication. Well aware that I can never even come close to being worthy of the luxurious and educated artist. Here we go, I will pay my respects to the diva. Surely, she will extend her ringed hand for a kiss. On my way to her, I listen reverently to her latest opera recording, closing my eyes in pleasure (almost) - I have to drive, to better concentrate on her arias. Upon arriving at the villa, I nervously check my hair, touch up my lips. And then I ring the bell. Silence. I ring again; has the staff really become hard of hearing over time? Nothing. Disappointed and hoping to perhaps catch her attention through a gesture at the terrace door, I wobble in my heels through the somewhat dilapidated garden. The veranda door is closed. The brocade curtains are drawn. Disappointed, I make my way back. I decide to ring once more, and when I accidentally bump against the ornate door, it gives way. With a pounding heart, I step inside. "Madame, Madame Perfectio," I call out. "Madame Perfectio, are you there? We have an appointment." Nothing. No response. With a guilty conscience and curiosity, I sneak through the house, my shoes leaving a trail in the dust. The furniture is covered. Carefully, I open a door that leads into what must have once been a magnificent bedroom. I muster my courage and step inside. Madame is not there. Documents lie on the table. I read a contract for admission to a senior care home. There's something else. A crystal vase with fine gold engravings. Withered roses and mushy carnations hang their drooping heads; perhaps a dead mouse is hiding among the slimy stems in the murky flower water. Am I sensing ammonia? Cautiously, I stick my nose into the floral graveyard. A piercing jab directly to the face. I stagger, fighting with hands and feet against a tentacled monster that maliciously and mockingly claws at my throat, driving its sharp teeth into my neck. I scream in horror, gasp for air, wipe the goo from my eyes, and fight with hands and feet for my life. Finally, I regain the upper hand over this flower vase creature. I fling off my uncomfortable heels and slip and slide down the spiral staircase towards the exit. In the car, I lock the door and stare in horror at the mirror. I am as pale as yellow wax, with dark circles under my eyes. Wrinkles cover my face. Suddenly, I have turned gray.