Puderperle

I wake up, blinking into the warm morning rays. The sunlight kisses the tip of my nose. The freckles you thought were so cute yesterday wink knowingly at each other. You are a witness.
My gaze wanders over the traces of last night. But you are no longer there. The seat next to me is empty. I feel emptiness in my chest. Not that I didn't know. Reason had warned me. Don't go, she said. It will hurt later.
And yet I didn't hesitate for a moment to give in to temptation. To feel the thrill of disobedience, to rush in euphorically to land in your strong arms. A dance of energetic intimacy, pulsating bodies, warmth, 10,000 volts...

I light a cigarette and watch the rings in the air. Just yesterday you were trying to stack them up on your index finger. Giggling, we dialed random numbers and made childish jokes in disguised voices.

We were drunk on adrenaline and attraction.

"Tu es belle comme une cathédrale
Je veux m'agenouiller avec crainte
T'at tout admettre
Et demander ta bénédiction"

"You are as beautiful as a cathedral
I would like to kneel in awe
Confess everything to you
And ask for your blessing"

I breathe the promises you gave me yesterday into the morning freshness. My body steams as the coolness of the open window hits my tender skin. My skin that still feeds on having been touched by you. You showed me what real goose bumps are. You were my best teacher.
I press my face into the white sheets one last time and breathe in the balsamic scent that your body had exuded. Sweet, oriental sounds echo pale inside me. I had tried so hard to live in the moment and still hold on to it. I had no chance. Sleep stole him gently from my arms.

"Il n'y a rien à avoir"
"There's nothing to confess," I write on a Post It and stick it to your mirror, next to the purple lipstick mark of my kissing mouth.

The moment I pull the door shut behind me, the pain hits me full force. Do I regret it? Je ne regrette rien!

-----------

I gave in to the temptation to test "Lancaster (Eau de Toilette Concentrée) | Lancaster" after reading all the enticing reviews. Balsamic, spicy herbs that cast a spell over me. Naming them individually is impossible for me. Smoke is in the air. Oriental, almost ethereal with a slight sweetness. Strong projection with powerful persistence. Impressive for an eau de toilette. A heavyweight that nevertheless seems half as heavy thanks to its transparency. Amazing, there is so much passion in this inconspicuous bottle, which looks more like an old self-tanner.
I knew it had already been discontinued. I knew it would only be a love for a brief moment.
Does it hurt? Incredibly yes.
Did I regret it? Not for a second.

"Quentin, why don't you give Anna-Isabella a compliment?" the dating expert asked the shy participant in his flirting course.

Quentin's hands slipped off the armrest of the chair, they were so wet and sweaty. He rubbed them on his corduroy trousers. You could literally see from the outside how his upper brain was at work.
"You... you have high heels." he squeezed out and pointed to her strappy shoes, hoping he had said the right thing.

"Yes, you recognized that correctly," said the coach and encouraged Quentin to say something nice afterwards. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Anna-Isabella handed him a handkerchief.
"You... ehm... you have tissues with you, ...that's really handy," he stammered.

The self-confident coach with the super modern haircut then explained once again to all the participants what a compliment is.
He sat down on the edge of his table and dangled one leg. The bright white of the sneakers was downright dazzling, but matched the color of his veneers perfectly. After he had observed the two groups sufficiently, he announced that he was going to go one step further. Now it was going to get a little more intimate after they had made contact with each other if they liked each other.

With Anna-Isabella's express permission, Quentin should now get a little closer so that he could smell her perfume. What would occur to him.
Poor Quentin's stomach was now making wild gurgling noises. He was embarrassed and really unable to do anything so profound now because of the distraction.

"You smell like a pretty woman, Anna-Isabella," he said truthfully. She blushed. The coach was thrilled, but couldn't get another description out of his participant.

To demonstrate to the troupe how to do it properly, he pulled a chair next to Anna-Isabella. He looked at her petite hand and placed his large, tanned one next to it. She automatically measured the difference in length in her head and smiled. He began to describe her delicate, shimmering porcelain skin. He wanted to know what scent she had put on today and pretended to have a clue. As expected, she held out the back of her hand to him. With a gentlemanly inclination of his head, he asked, "May I?" and at her nod, he took her almost fragile wrist in his hand and brought the pulse to his nose in slow motion. Closing his eyes, he breathed in.

"Rose. You love roses," he speculated with relish. "But powder takes center stage."
Anna-Isabella's eyes widened. Yes, that was true. She was very receptive to this kind of attention. Unfortunately, the fragrance had lost its durability on her wrist, so he couldn't say much more about it, although he would have liked to explore the depths of the scent. Consequently, she felt the urge to tuck her silky hair behind her shoulder and offer him her neck. With feigned surprise and gratitude, he accepted the offer and slowly moved closer.

"Hmm, how wonderful. So innocent. The scent of your skin gives this delicate perfume a pleasant home. The soft powderiness emphasizes your natural beauty in harmonious, soft tones. Musk makes me want to embrace you protectively. Full of attentiveness. The way you look at the finest porcelain and touch it with velvet gloves.
Wood... yes, I smell wood, which creaks softly like a friendly parquet floor when you dance light-footedly on it. One that carries you safely. You remind me of a ballerina, clean, noble, graceful. Your scent encourages me to give you security, but at the same time I feel so comfortable in it, as if you are the one who puts a slightly warm coat around my shoulders. I can't say it any other way than: Simply adorable, little powder doll. Will you allow me that nickname?"

Nodding vigorously, the powder doll beamed at him.

"Oh, that was lovely!" Regina clapped her hands in delight.
"Yes, look, they still exist, the romantic men," Bettina dreamed.

Unfortunately, Quentin had missed the scene when he came back from the toilet.
Anna-Isabella, the epitome of a clean girl, didn't care, she adjusted her light pink blouse dress to ask the coach after the end of the course... well, about his scent.

--------------------
The coach, the little rogue, described the fragrance exactly as I would. Light, powdery, unobtrusive, clean and feminine. An interplay between warm and cold. It is ladylike, but so natural and without artificiality. Fluffy, typical Narciso musk and dusty powder make up the opening. Rose is clearly perceptible, but remains harmonious in its interplay. I don't notice any jasmine. The base is powdery and cedar-woody. It is simply light: slightly sweet, slightly creamy and also becomes slightly warmer on my skin towards the end, like a spring day. A fascinating fragrance that I would never want to be without.

Determined, I opened the door of the perfumery. The heels of my Louboutins clacked on the marble floor.
Oh right, don't forget to smile.

The head of a sales clerk appeared above the shelves. She had probably stood on tiptoe. In an overly friendly manner, she came tippy-toeing around the Paco Rabanne advertising aconite and eyed me unabashedly.
"Can I help you saaaain?"

I automatically mirrored her smugness. Of course, I absolutely need her help for my project:
"Yes, that's terribly kind of you, I would like to test a classic women's fragrance that is still wearable today."

I slowly turned in the direction of Guerlain. But she steered unerringly in the direction of Chanel. She reached out and held the strip of paper under my nose. I immediately recognized No. 5, but played dumb.

"You've picked out something nice," I praised her.
As it was a little too powdery for me, I asked for another selection.
Quelque Fleurs was too floral for me, Aromatics too spicy and White Linen too clean. With a bit of coaxing to see if she could use her expertise to show me something vanilla with an exotic name, she went for Eden. The old woman was really slow on the uptake. It's hard to believe, but fake praise takes effort. I almost wanted to give up until she stopped and placed herself in front of the Guerlain shelf, scratching her head. I breathed out a sigh of relief. She was finally standing where I wanted her to be.
Her eyes wandered through the individual flacons until

"Here I have something,"

she held up the enchanting bottle of Shalimar, the object of my desire. The amber-colored liquid sloshed in the artfully crafted glass bottle. She removed the blue cap and sprayed the fragrance generously onto my outstretched forearm.
I closed my eyes. At last. This is what heaven felt like. I looked down at myself, but couldn't make out anything at first. Was it the clouds or thick smoke? It would be news to me that angels have a fondness for tobacco, or also very unlikely that the throne of heaven is currently burning down. What could it be?

A row of enchantingly beautiful temple attendants came dancing and singing towards me. I was amazed. The first held incense in her hand, which she swung around me with gentle movements. The second put a crown of bergamot on my head for a citrusy touch. The third dancer helped me into a delicate silk dress, the surface of which shimmered golden. The mirror bearer concluded the round dance with an invitation to look at me. I rubbed my eyes. What had happened to my legs? Were they vanilla pods? Indeed they were. Endlessly long vanilla pods. But it looked kind of good.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and as I was about to sway and join in the dance, I heard

"Hello? You don't like the smell either?"

Suddenly the perfume saleswoman with the forced smile and far too small blazer brought me back.

"Uh no, unfortunately no. Not at all," I lied, but kept the bottle in my hand. To keep her happy, I smeared enough honey around her black-rimmed mouth and asked her one last time for a particular fragrance that I knew was not available in the store. The lady was obviously feeling flattered and started chatting about her private life. Then she hovered overzealously at her tablet to check order availability.

My phone rang and I apologized for not wanting to keep the poor cab driver waiting. Before she could complete the order, I thanked her profusely for her excellent advice, dropping Shalimar inconspicuously into my coat pocket. Outside, I turned off the alarm clock and walked slowly to the bus stop so that the crown wouldn't slip....

--------------------
No, dear readers, stealing is not good. Not even with testers. Handcuffs are not necessarily the most beautiful accessory.
I cannot agree with the descriptions that the fragrance is old-fashioned. The very first time I tested it, I was transported to another world, as described above. Bergamot on the head, the endless, not too sweet vanilla pods, wrapped in a warm smoky cloak. Timeless elegance and character, beauty and nobility. Not dressy enough for jeans, rather a companion for the grand entrance. A hackneyed word from the AI, but I can't say it any other way but to whisper reverently: Shalimar is truly a "masterpiece" for me.

Konstantin loved routines. Every lunch break, he went to the park with his book at exactly noon to read a fantasy novel alone on his favorite bench. He only ever read until he could stop at the bottom right-hand corner of an even number of pages. He wasn't lonely, at least he would never admit it. He had experienced enough disappointments that had made him increasingly withdrawn from the female sex.

Lately, he could hardly concentrate on his lunchtime reading because there was this one "problem".
For several days now, he had been noticing the large areas of waste from excessive pistachio consumption. Every time he saw the shells, his comb swelled. It really offended his sense of hygiene and symmetry. Evil tongues would say he might be suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder.

One sunny spring day, he spotted a fresh trail. His eyes searchingly followed the line on the gravel path that led him to a sandalwood bench under shady trees.
Aha. This had to be the source of the contamination. There were hundreds of nutshells scattered in the grass in a wide arc around the bench.
He was just about to start with a rather unkind admonishment that had been building up inside him for weeks when the "squirrel" beat him to it and turned around. The loveliest creature he had ever seen smiled at him. Every word got stuck in his throat. A classic case of blackout.
In her white and pink striped dress and space buns, she reminded him of an anime doll woman. The delicate face looked as if a soft filter from old Hollywood films had been placed over it. Was it just him or did he hear violins playing?

The rustling of a bag of nuts brought him back. She fished out a pistachio and clamped it between her pearly white teeth. He inevitably winced at the crunch. The poor nut is losing its home, he thought briefly.

The nutcracker held out her hand "Jasmine" she introduced herself.
"I think you mean Beautiful Jasmine," he corrected.

Beautiful Jasmine giggled.

"Eh... is Aladdin here too?" he heard himself chuckle a little too boisterously, only to feel like an idiot the next moment. Too late, he could already feel the heat pulsing in his square skull.

Luckily, she interrupted the awkward silence. "What's your name?"

"Konstaldin"

She looked puzzled at first, only to burst out laughing the next moment.

Proud that his joke had gone down so well, he now cleared his throat to finally get to the point:
"You've eaten 392 pistachios today. And a total of 8,934 since Monday three weeks ago. Obviously you forgot to clean up."
He triumphantly held a faded net bag of nutshells under her nose.

Her laughter died away. She was speechless. Or impressed. He couldn't say for sure. Reading facial expressions was not one of his strengths, nor was knowing when to say or do the right thing at the right time and vice versa. But what he did recognize were the white blotches on her otherwise flawless face.

"You've got something there."
Faster than she could react, his index finger was already drawing on her cheek and then disappeared into his mouth.
"Ah cream. Nivea cream with paraffinum liquidum to be more precise," he analyzed.

Now she was a little embarrassed that she had handled her morning care so bunglingly. But that didn't bother her. Entranced by her almond eyes, he forgot his resolution to keep his distance from the female sex. So he took heart and asked if she would like to go out with him. That was far too complicated, replied the beautiful Jasmin, she had a food allergy. She couldn't eat anything except these nuts.
He could understand that logically and was almost embarrassed.

Due to the circumstance, they sat on the same bench day in and day out, sharing pistachios from a packet. Unfortunately, she couldn't win him over for spitting the shells wildly. He compromised by placing the net bag symmetrically near his foot so that he could aim for it.

Side note: Incidentally, they also became smarter and healthier as a result of their excessive consumption and, best of all, none of them were lonely any more. But of course Konstaldin would never admit that, nor that he would never finish reading his book.

-------------------
This Trussardi enchanted me straight away. An unobtrusive powder fragrance like the gentle smile of the spring sun. Neroli and bergamot only give a very delicate fresh breeze in the top note, the pistachio is pleasantly sweet without being sticky. Salt remains hidden from me. The fragrance is creamy from the beginning to the sandalwood finish. But I'm talking about a skin care cream, not an edible dessert. The care aspect of the fragrance is due to the beautiful jasmine, which is always harmonious and never overpowering. I perceive the sillage rather close to the skin.

Thank you dear Kalinka1973 for opening your treasure chest and sharing your love for the fragrance with me. It's like eating pistachios together under the jasmine bush.

I can remember the exact moment when I met you for the first time. As if it was only yesterday. You were introduced to us as a new colleague. I wasn't prepared for it. I was prepared for a new colleague, but not for the effect you had on me.
All the impressions came flooding in over the next few days, so many names and work processes. All the hustle and bustle was a good disguise for me. So you couldn't see that I was watching you. Quite unabashedly.
You could never remember my name, I said it to you five times. Whenever we had fleeting contact. I never held that against you. You're far too charming for that. Besides, you have little dimples in your cheeks when you get embarrassed. So ask me my name a thousand more times. I'll never get tired of telling you.

I find myself creating reasons to stay close to you.
Every time I make eye contact with your blackcurrant eyes, my heart stops for a moment and your smile moves mountains. Or makes it rain coriander seeds. Yes, strange things happen in your presence.

Your strength. It's enormous. You enter the room and you fill every corner with a presence that puts robbers to flight. Probably because you're made of oud wood.
You once mentioned that winter is your time. That's definitely the case. Your cheeks have never been rosier. Knitted sweaters with strong saffron threads keep you warm and give your surroundings a pleasant sillage. You defy the cold and melt icebergs. Is this due to the oriental touch? The fire of the desert glows inside you.

Unfortunately, your name wasn't on my Secret Santa list. God had not heard my prayer. You politely smiled away the old snowman-scented candle so as not to offend Günther.
I, on the other hand, would have given you the world. Or a horse, so we wouldn't have to steal it first. That would save us time and we could leave straight away. You probably can't do anything with stars, you're too tough. You'd pluck them from the sky yourself. Without a ladder. You don't need a man for that.

The scent of your hair hypnotizes me even at a distance. How do you think it feels? No. I am a man of decency and respect. I will not touch you. Except... there are no limits to my thoughts. And in my imagination, I slowly take two steps closer, smell your hair... very delicately, musk and vanilla...

"Is everything all right?"
Caught red-faced, I don't dare look you in the eye. Was I staring? Did you buy my stammered white lie about looking for the stapler? I doubt it was in your hair.

No. I'm not a stalker. I never will be. Allow me to express my sincere admiration for the beauty of your character. For the fact that your open laughter is captivating. And allow me to pay you the compliment you've probably never heard before: Your brain is sexy.
The combination of cleverness and healthy self-confidence make it.

You can be cute when you want to be. But you'd rather leave the job to other colleagues. An assertive businesswoman who also feels comfortable in a wine-red evening dress, that's more likely to be you. Nevertheless, you don't take a brute approach, but retain your femininity with a rose in your hand. Patchouli grounds you quietly in the background.
I think leather jackets would suit you very well, by the way.

You are my insider tip. Would I tell my friends about you? For God's sake, never. They would permanently block my view of you with their inquisitive minds. Too much publicity doesn't help your character either. Imagine everyone looking for the stapler!

Am I weird if I say I look forward to every Monday morning and am already mourning on Friday? Every day with you is a precious gift, yes I'm not exaggerating. Knowing you are close to me is pure bliss.

Will I send the letter to you? Heavens no. Although - I'm sure you'd remember my name. But no. I decide against it and prefer to remain your most loyal admirer in secret. You're the true icon for me. You make it hard not to love you.

P.s. The red Monday rose on your keyboard is mine.

Etienne A.