WHITE MUSK

A fellow at work (a student, not mine) asked me what perfume I wear. He told me he noticed it a few times when we passed one another in the hallway and he liked it. It sounds like a bad pick up line, but honestly his query was so matter-of-fact it was neither meant nor taken as one.

The strange thing is, the reason I'm bothering to write about this at all, yesterday or the day before I realized I couldn't smell my own perfume anymore. I practically had the little glass vial shoved up my nose and it smelled like a bottle of empty. I considered going back to the place it was purchased to say, "Sorry to trouble you, but his perfume is broken. May I please have my five dollars back?"

But maybe the perfume isn't broken.

Perhaps my nose is broken.