It was the scent that got him first; the feel of her hands came after. The bottle of Issi Miyake fell to the floor spewing out its fragrant contents at his feet.
The memories flooded.
He could see her before him, as if conjured genie-like from the multi-coloured bottle. His hand reached out for something to support him as his knees buckled under the weight of regret and reflection.
Her image turned her back to him and walked to the bed, where it sat looking up at him.
She smiled.
He looked away and glanced at the bare light bulb that dangled from the broken lamp fitting. Her smell was strong.
He looked at her; she smiled again, this time slightly unsure.
“Don’t you remember me,” she said.
“Only too well,” he murmured staring at the rapidly-evaporating puddle of perfume that began to cool his toes.
“Once that’s gone I will be too,” she looked at the bottle, stood up and placed a hand on his cheek: it felt like an anvil had been dropped on his chest.
“I know.”
“Do you miss me?”
“Too much to feel it anymore.”
She held his head in her hands and he inhaled deeply. The smell reminded him of his youth, of long drives and New Radicals; of midnight stealth and unbridled passion.
It reminded him of what he had lost.
He cried, she sighed.
The scent dimmed, and she looked towards the window. “This too shall pass. You should know, that’s what you always said,” she giggled slightly, and then seeing his pained expression looked away.
The smell was ebbing and he breathed in ever-deepening gasps. He wanted it in his lungs, in his marrow. He would never see her again; this was his last chance to be part of his past.
“Why did you go?” she asked, toying with the end of the bed sheet.
“Why didn’t you stay?”
“What for? So that we could both be single at 70?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh D— you know so little about life. You reduced your life to emotional carnage; you created the monsters that trouble you today. All I ever wanted was normalcy.”
“We can still have normalcy.”
“I have normalcy.”
The image before him shimmered, faded slightly and then refocused. She was leaving.
He breathed deep again, and sat on the bed by her side.
“It could have been great.”
“My darling, it was great. We, however, weren’t great enough to make it last,” she smiled and ruffled his hair.
“Maybe next time?” he said as he watched her rise and head for the window.
“Maybe.” She turned and looked at him. She was crying now. Her tears didn’t come in sobs, they trickled. She had emancipated herself from his cruelty, but her tears still genuflected.
“I’m afraid one day I will awaken and be unable to remember,” he said, his voice now had a pleading timbre to it.
“Don’t worry there’s always Issi Miyake,” she said and disappeared.
He watched her fade away and the air left his body in a great sigh. It soared and he with it. He looked down on his form from on high: a frail man bent under the weight of misspent years.
He watched the man pick up the bottle and lay its disappearing contents on his pillow. He watched as he lay on the bed and placed the pillow in his arms.
That’s how they found him the next morning. The coroner said he died of a heart attack.
At his wake one of his friends joked that he died due to a perfume overdose.
“That room stank of Issi Miyake,” he laughed, and the room did too.
At the back of the room, a woman wept. She reached into her handbag for a tissue, and found it next to her bottle of perfume. She clutched the bottle tight. It was now her link to him. The fragrance would always remind her of the last thing he ever smelled. Even in death, he had linked himself to her.
She would never escape…now she would stop trying.
