Christmas is near. I can see her taking a new run up to the perfume shops, her nostrils quivering in order to fulfil a certain and sacred desire she promised Him last winter.
A perfume, it is called.
She heard that Déclaration d’un soir was a bold, very surprising bet for a perfume made to be sold in the supermarkets of scents but she is in two minds, actually. She wants an exceptional perfume but does not trust the department stores. If she could, she would call Süskind for help.
Mister’s skin has such an entrancing and reassuring scent, a soft, warm and animal, slightly salted smell that she would not like any perfume to touch it.
Before she met Him, she used to plunge her face into me at night to breathe my wool before going to bed. One night, she fell asleep, her nose close to his armpit. Since then, she does not breathe me anymore before lying down. When Mister gets home, I discover that most of the time she raises herself on tiptoe to smell the nape of his neck, exactly where she says he smells like fur and salt.
I personally think he smells like wool. Wool and sea.
As surprising as it may be, I do not hate him but I wonder. How a man’s skin and an old jumper’s wool can both smell like each other ?
