With a firm handshake, the mayor of Gotham City bids farewell to Bruce Wayne in his study. The horror of the last few days is still written all over the older man's face as he neatly trims his thinning hair to one side.
The head of the city had laid on
Halfeti for this important appointment. On his way into the long hallway, he looked back at Mr. Wayne: ''Thank you for your time,'' he said, lowering his worried gaze to the floor as he was led to the large front door of the estate by a servant.
The conversation kept Bruce Wayne busy well into the evening hours as his gaze wandered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study to the rainy woods and into the distance. He undid the first button of his tailored white shirt and, as if in a trance, grabbed a flask from the eagle wood shelf at the side.
It is rare that a perfume can capture and reflect the essence of a character and an appearance like this fantstic scent, which unfolded in the room within seconds. A light, green scent rose up, the multifaceted nature of which could be described with an infinite number of words: sophisticated, masculine, serious, to name but a few. The fragrance embodied its wearer and vice versa. It fitted the gentleman like a glove. In that great collection of the most luxurious drops of perfume art, this was his favorite.
Bruce Wayne startled, the motion detector immediately illuminating the room in a mild evening light. The eagle wood shelf had remained untouched. Mr. Wayne's eyes darted hastily through the rows of bottles: no, once again,
Fougère d'Argent was not among them.
With a deep breath, Bruce Wayne took note of this with relief. He had often held the bottle in his hand and removed the cap, which was only slightly distinguishable from air in its weight. The sprayer formed jolts that reminded him of the large fountain on the approach to his estate before it had undergone an elaborate restoration. Looking at the price of the perfume in disbelief, Mr. Wayne simply could not understand how this disaster could have happened.
When it comes to pricing, Tom Ford fragrances are subject to almost any arbitrariness. It is a tiresome topic among the inhabitants of the city, many of whom are convinced that luxury goods should not be subject to price discussions anyway; others wondered why the prices of the flacons did not allow for the slightest investment to bring the product haptically into line with its intended market position. A Datejust wears no more on a rubber band than a chewing gum machine spits out a Tiffany's ring.
Tom Ford seems to disregard these contexts.
But that bottle on a fine eagle wood shelf? No, I can't imagine that, said Bruce Wayne to himself.
The billionaire closed his eyes: "No, that's too expensive for me."
May he find his night's rest after this difficult week without further nightmares.
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