Bright. Fresh. Clean. Crisp.

You smell exactly as you should — a standard beige trenchcoat. Not to offend, but at the same time, not to stun. Uniform. A spritz is met with peach, marigold, black currant, green apple; ten minutes are met with jasmine, sandalwood, moss, cedarwood; an hour with musk, vanilla. On my flesh it is the green apple that stands out, a little cheap but not too sweet.


Even your bottle and tone elicit the same effect. Bulbous, a little boring; a lovable Labrador retriever that really isn’t all that bright. And I do like you, I do, but there isn’t a chance I could wear you for more than a day or two a month. In exceeding this limit you become grating to my nose, reminding me of Be Delicious and Light Blue… and no, love, such comparisons are not meant as compliments.

I wouldn’t mind being trapped in an elevator with you; can’t imagine anyone who would. (I wouldn’t be the cause for the elevator stopping, though.) For the large part you are entirely unoffensive, and dilute enough as to not overwhelm. I tried to love you, I did… but it can’t be done. I just can’t. 


I know so, so many people who adore you and your siblings. But you play it so safe, so close to the chest. I need someone more; I need someone with life. I’m past that point where I fear smelling like perfume, past the point where I need to smell like an apple orchid scrubbed clean with bleach. You and I… we were never meant to be.