Bleu de Chanel, a perfume short story

I wake up sweating. What time is it? Five in the morning. It’s so hot. The sheets stick to my body. I need to feel the fresh air of dawn brushing against my skin. I feel alive as never before.

Beside me, she breathes in and out slowly, with the calmness of sleepers having sweet dreams. I need to get up without waking her. The air is thick, full of the dust of water-starved cities. I’m short of water too. I swallow a glass of iced liquid directly from the fridge. She thinks the cold hurts my body when I wake up, but she’s asleep. She won’t know anyway.

A quick shower to wash away the memories of the night, however beautiful they may be. A first night isn’t necessarily the prelude to wonderful tomorrows, but ours will be, I know it. How many tomorrows? What does it matter?

I suddenly need some air. A few drops of Bleu, the perfume, behind my ear and in the hollow of my throat. I love the smell of lavender, cedarwood and sandalwood when I breathe. Imagining myself in a forest, feeling the power of the trees reaching for the sky, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath my feet. She gave this bottle to me. She understood my vital need for space, for unguarded freedom. A few drops are enough.

I get dressed, grab the keys to my car and head out. Heading south on the Nationale 7. They call it the Route Bleue… I’m not surprised.

She wakes up, stretches like a cat and pushes the sheets away with the tip of her foot. She would like to stay a little longer, her head on the pillow, like a soft cloud cradling her thoughts. She keeps her eyes closed. She smiles. She reaches out for another skin, but only touches the sheets and a piece of paper on which is written: “I’ve been down to the sea. I need to bathe in the blue sky. Villa La Pausa. Would you like to join me?