I Borrow Her Perfume

# I Borrow Her Perfume Like Other Girls Borrow Sweaters

Some girls borrow sweaters from their mothers. I steal perfume identities (Just my Mom ones). Very sophisticated crime. When Mom leaves for work I sometimes stand in front of her perfumes deciding which version of femininity feels survivable that day.

Angel is impossible.
Too powerful.
It enters rooms before morality arrives.

Poison smells like someone dangerous who definitely ruins marriages accidentally.
Allure is cleaner. Softer. The perfume equivalent of knowing how to order wine correctly in restaurants.

And Opium…
Honestly Opium smells like beautiful bad decisions.

I wore a little to school once by mistake, okay not by mistake, deliberately, but then immediately regretted it because suddenly I smelled like a mysterious divorced actress instead of a fifteen-year-old with unfinished Latin homework. H. noticed instantly, haha Of course she did. She leaned closer and quietly asked: “Is that your mother’s perfume?” Which somehow felt more embarrassing than being arrested.

Perfume changes posture. That’s the strange thing. People move differently depending on how they smell.

Mom says fragrance should become part of memory.
I think she’s right because now every season already belongs to specific scents in my mind.

Milan mornings smell like Allure and cold fabric.
G. smells like cigarettes, sea salt, and M.’s sweaters.
School smells like paper and stress.
And October smells permanently like Angel floating through hallways at home while rain hits the windows.

ANGEL.
Remember me,
Eclipse