pour monsieur

paysage avec cypres et oliviers, henri matisse

it has never been her habit to text everyone for their coffee order on her way in to work. when she shows up late, apologizing for & complaining about “the long line for drinks,” her hair is visibly wet, & she smells like…not herself. he doesn’t know the right words. but most of the time she smells quietly of something that reminds him oddly, pleasantly, of choward’s violet mints. today, she smells (still quietly, yet disquietingly) green, spicy/herbal, a little like a cedar sauna, fadingly like lemon zest. her usual perfume is much more feminine. “oh no, you don’t want this one, this one’s for him,” she says, defending his black coffee from an office lady fiending for caramel drizzle. normally he’s above a starbucks coffee but he had kind of wanted to take something from her. it’s ashier than he remembered and more bitter, but he’s grateful for how effectively the bracing badness of the smell clears away every other scent.