Le Labo, Lower East Side, NYC. For your 40th birthday you insisted on being a ‘cheap date’: no cake, just 40 candles. I watched your partner’s face contort as he realized you meant LE LABO candles. ‘It’s still frugal,’ you said, ‘think of the ambience.” I was captivated by your decadent logic and faith in the transformative power of scent.

Le Labo, Munich. I watched as a sniff of PATCHOULI 24 stirred something deep within you—something forgotten, or buried. It was as if you’d vanished, leaving only the scent. It reminded me that perfumes are time machines for the nose. After you left, I asked for a bottle of the same fragrance. I want to come and find wherever you went.

Le Labo, Fortitude Valley, Brisbane. The beguiling scent of EUCALYPTUS 20 knocked you off your feet—quite literally, as you staggered backwards and landed in a leather armchair. You explained that you suffer from Stendhal syndrome, and faint when exposed to extraordinary works of art. Now I’m dizzy and think I might have fallen for you.

Palm Desert, California. Just to be clear, I’m not looking for you. You were rude and unpleasant. But credit where it’s due—you smelled sublime. When I asked what kind of sorcery was responsible, you replied, “LE LABO.” So, consider this a missed connection for your mystery perfume: it was bright and intoxicating, musky, and complex. Please tell your wearer to send me the name of the fragrance, so we can both get on with our lives smelling that good.

Le Labo Gofukushoten, Tainan. You intended to smell the perfume without reading its name on the bottle. That’s why your eyes were closed when you accidentally sprayed me—standing right beside you. I know I seemed irritated at the time (ok, I yelled), but my arm smelled delightful for the rest of the day, so I went back to buy a bottle. Sorry for telling you to look where you’re spritzing. (*It turned out to be YLANG 49 btw).