Perfume

Jan. 6th, 2007 07:15 pm
[personal profile] squirmelia
She watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer last night, which she found intriguing, even after having read the book. She arrived home and smelt a soft toy that belonged to her grandmother, to see if she could still smell her grandmother's scent on it. She wasn't sure if she could, since it smelt mostly dusty.

She wonders what other people would want to capture the scent of and thinks that sometimes it would be the way people smelt that they miss, of past lovers.

She stands by the postbox and sniffs it gently, trying to catch traces of love letters dowsed in perfume, hiding in the depths of the postbox, impatient to reach their destination. Instead, she smells only the metallic tang of the red postbox and does not even know if there are letters inside.

She wanders to Rose Road to see if it was named that because of the way it smells, but all she can smell is the butterfly bush, still in bloom. She adds the smell of roses to the street and imagines the pavements cracked with roses growing through them.

She thought about visiting Lime Street, Almond Road and Cherry Walk, but the sun had began to set. She ran towards the sun, chasing the sunset through the graveyard, but did not reach the vivid pink and orange stripes of colour before they disappeared.
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