Nerolia

After a short sniff at the flacon during my last visit to the perfumery, I immediately put her back on the shelf, scared off, and dared a courageous test directly on my wrist at the second attempt.
Immediately I was surrounded by an exhilarating flowery scent, which almost immediately put the mirabelle plums in my spiritual basket. I would have given myself to her further unseen, the nomad... Who only smells up to here, will lie at her feet.
But after a few minutes a biting smell suddenly began to tickle my nose. Was I too close to the Old Spice on the shelf in front of me? No, the nomad was back! This time she had thrown away the now withered bouquet of flowers and had eaten all the mirabelle plums. Instead she had put on her old goatskin cape and stood before me in the scorching sun, holding an ancient wooden stick in her hand. Was that just a mirage? Carefully I sniffed again directly at the wrist: But, that was clearly the nomad and also again the smell, which had let me put the bottle back on the shelf frightened at the last attempt. A scent like that of old men who have been using the same, slightly tilted aftershave lotion for years. Biting, musty, stubborn. Is that really oakmoss? The scent has nothing cool about it, only scorching, glowing, breathtaking heat. Oak moss dried out by the sun and covered with sticky resin, shortly before fomentation?
After I had arrived home, I ran directly to the tap and thoroughly scrubbed my arm with odourless soap. But the scent was still there.
At noon my son asked what a strange smell it was hanging over the lunch table. It was the nomad who was still hanging around. I would have liked to have sent her to the desert, but she stayed.