Scent
I used to live in this small apartment building. It had four floors and was situated close to the building where I worked as a copywriter. I lived on the third floor. There were three other tenants on the floor. One was a journalist from one of the city’s newspapers; the second was a saleslady from the department store I frequented and the last tenant was a woman who lived next door.
This woman’s name was Miranda and she worked as a home-based perfumer. She often created unique scents such as lemon mint, mandarin citrus, and passion fruit and even trendy scents such as apple cinnamon, lavenders, and sage. All these were homemade by the means of boiling and brewing the ingredients, she would sell these concoctions in various pop-up stores and concept boutiques.
I would often buy her perfumes for my nieces for their birthdays and on several occasions, for myself. I’m not much of a perfume guy, but I have to admit, her many scents were something. And I must admit she was surely something of a looker.
She was quite pretty with long brown hair and brown eyes. She was in her late 40s and for a woman in her 40s, she still looked as if she were in her early 30s. And above all, she was married. But the strange part was, I rarely saw the husband, Bob. In fact, in the 6 months, since I moved to the apartment, I had never seen her husband. I didn’t even know how he looked. Bob worked for a production company where they would constantly travel to distant cities. Well, at least that’s what Miranda would tell me.
Whenever I would pass her in the hallways, I would always ask her where Bob was. And she would always give me the same excuse. “Oh, you just missed him.”
There were times when I would question if her husband was even around. After all, what kind of guy would go on long business trips for days on end and leave his beautiful and devoted wife all alone in the apartment? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it screamed affair.
Miranda, however, would assure me that nothing was going on and that Bob was simply a hardworking man who wanted to provide Miranda with the most luxurious life any devoted husband would. I would often feel jealous that a guy like Bob could even have someone like Miranda. Lucky bastard. I often thought to myself.
One day, I was invited to attend the Journalists’ Ball. It was an annual event for all the city’s journalists and newspaper staff. To be honest, I was excited but also worried. I didn’t have a formal suit on hand. All I had was a coat jacket I bought at the department store and black pants. And renting was out of the question since I didn’t have much on hand.
While I pondered on my predicament, I heard a knock on the door. I got up and opened the door to see Miranda. She looked like she had been crying. I asked her what was wrong. She then told me that she had found out that Bob was having an affair all along. The business trips of his were trips to his mistress, who coincidentally was one of his co-workers at the production company. Miranda looked so distraught and who could blame her. I’d be upset as well.
“I’m so sorry, Miranda,” I said. “Would you like to come inside and have some coffee?”
She nodded and I ushered her inside my apartment. I poured her some coffee and she and I sat at the table and just talked. Miranda told me how she found out about the affair and while she expressed herself, I found myself seething with rage. Bob was a successful production crew worker, with a loving and devoted wife. How could he do that to her?
“You don’t deserve someone like that, Miranda,” I said to her. “You deserve someone who loves you without any reservations whatsoever.”
“Thank you,” Miranda said wiping her tears. “I’m sorry I bothered you with this.”
“It’s no trouble.” I quickly said. “But will you be alright? I mean, what do you plan to do?”
Miranda told me she planned to talk to Bob and confront him. A rational thought. Then she asked. “If you don’t mind me asking, did I interrupt you on something?”
“Oh no, not really,” I told her about my predicament and that I needed a suit. “But I don’t know where the heck I can get a suit. Much less afford one.”
“You could borrow one of Bob’s suits.” She suddenly said.
“Really?” I asked. “He wouldn’t mind?”
Miranda assured me it was one of the old suits Bob rarely wore and that he wouldn’t miss it. I thanked her for it and she told me to come over the next day so that I could fit it. Which was perfect since tomorrow night was the Journalists’ Ball. I thanked her again and she thanked me for the coffee and time and left my apartment. I couldn’t believe just how lucky I felt. And in some way, I felt that it was Miranda’s way of thanking me for listening to her.
I went to her apartment the very next day. She ushered me in and I could see a lot of bottles all filled with her homemade perfumes. There was a strong minty smell in the air. I didn’t mind. She must’ve been making a new batch of perfumes to sell. I then noticed a traveling bag on the floor. “Is that Bob’s, Is he home?” I asked.
Miranda came out of the room carrying a suit on a hanger and a bottle of perfume. “Yes, Bob was actually home yesterday-. But he left again.” She said.
“Did you confront him?” I asked as she put the suit on me
“Yes…and we agreed that Bob won’t leave me ever again,” Miranda said. I looked into the mirror in the hallway and I had to admit, Bob had good taste and for some strange reason, the suit fit me perfectly. “You look good,” Miranda said. Then she started spraying some perfume on me. “You’re ready to go.”
“Thanks, Miranda,” I said as I started to walk to the front door. I started to smell myself. There was something really great about this scent. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I then saw Miranda standing in the living room, a rather peculiar and for lack of better description, unnerving smile was on her face.
“This is a unique scent,” I said to her, holding the doorknob. “What scent am I wearing? Chanel? Is it Davidoff? Or some kind of new fragrance you’ve created?”
Miranda still smiled that unnerving smile and then she said something that sent chills down my spine. “You’re wearing my husband.”
Written and Published by Govinda Chaddha
