Inextinguishable Moments

Long after I forget the dialogue of a conversation, I can recall the perfume of the moment.  Smells linger.  Like the lung-searing rot of cigarettes that embeds itself into hair.  Or the bright citrus that stains fingers after peeling a fresh orange, resistant even to soap.  And I love body sprays.  You find out a lot about person from the scent they choose to wear.  There are feminine young girls, wearing pink and curling their hair, who douse themselves in the loud juiciness of fruits – berries, cherries, and peaches.  There are sultry adult women, wearing short cut pin skirts and V-necked silk blouses teasing with one button too low, who pair their maroon lipstick with the dark allure of black currant and plum.  There are the conservative women, quietly hiding behind thin-rimmed glasses, who dab a touch of vanilla on to each wrist before hurrying out the door every morning.  There are men with polos and khakis who spritz with the freshness of white waters and salty beach air, reminding them of their beloved vacation homes.  There are confident young men, with penetrating eyes and dark, gelled hair who go out smelling of nothing but the alluring tar of their embellished leather jackets and the slight whisper of the morning’s minty aftershave.  And there are men who accompany their gold watches and pressed suit jackets with the richness of amber wood and sage.

I once bought a candle because it smelled like my best friend’s cologne.  A mix of spicy cinnamon and musky sandalwood.  Each time I lit the wick, I remembered that smell on his t-shirt when I hugged him.  I remembered the faint trace of it in his hair when he used my chest as a pillow on his parents’ couch.  I remembered how the black sheets on his California King bed rubbed that scent on to me when I spent the night.  I remembered the way a slight odor of sweat tried to mask that scent on his neck when he kissed mine.  That candle reminded me of the nights we snuck up into his room after school and explored each other with our hands and mouths until his parents came crashing through the door downstairs.  When I told Jason I bought a candle because it smelled like him he laughed at me.

“You’re such a girl,” he chided.  Then followed up with, “I miss you, too.”
                On my dresser still sits the unmelted nub of the candle that remained after that wick refused to light.