Liberty London. INCIDENT REPORT: Spritz and Run. Subject (me) was ascending steps en route to refill LYS 41 while unnamed individual (you) was descending. Olfactory collision occurred when cloud of your scent (likely suspect: VIOLETTE 30) made direct contact with my senses. Symptoms experienced: Sudden spike in heart rate, urge to abandon plans, overwhelming desire for your number. You’re wanted for questioning… and maybe drinks.
Le Labo, Nolita, NYC. Have you ever heard of the “Mandela Effect?” It’s when lots of people remember the same event wrong. Because I could’ve sworn I visited this lab in 1978. I remember it vividly: patchouli in the air, the label printed just for me. I was carrying a Walkman. My boyfriend had a mustache. We were on our way to see Blondie at CBGB. Now I’m told Le Labo opened in 2006—my entire olfactory reality has evaporated. Either we’re living in the matrix, or Le Labo exists outside of time. P.S. Are you sure it didn’t also used to be SANTAL 34?
St. Augustine, Florida. I’ve always loved the blues—the music and the mood. Blues that drift through a trumpet at midnight. Blues that settle in your bones. Tonight I lit a blue candle—the Special Edition CYPRÈS 21 Indigo Candle. It took a little of that time I always say I don’t have—and handed it back to me. I sat enchanted, quietly breathing, all while The Duke was playing. Mood: Indigo.
Le Labo, Athens. You said you were a “retrochic romantic”—only into relics. You wore an ‘87 bomber jacket (somehow from 2023) and claimed your car was “a hybrid—but vintage.” You’d just discovered this “under-the-radar fragrance boutique giving serious heirloom energy”—called Le Labo, and asked if I’d heard of it. I was wearing ANOTHER 13 at the time. Honey, I’ve lived that fragrance—you wandered into the lab yesterday. But on reflection, you were hot, and I need some new old soul in my life. So let’s meet again—and I’ll pretend I just discovered you.
Mexico City, 1968. I don’t remember the bar. I don’t remember the hour. I only remember your scent—and what it did to me. Something woody and warm, and full of longing. I never smelled it again, but spent decades seeking it out. Mexico City, 2026. I smelled BERGAMOTE 22 for the first time, and tears filled my eyes. There is something in it that brings back the missing trace of you. A physical link that is stronger than memory. It’s strange. Perfume fades in time—but just like you, my love, it refuses to be forgotten.
Métro Abbesses, Montmartre. I caught a trace of your perfume as we passed on the métro platform. I felt certain I’d met you before. Not in a maybe-we-matched-on-Hinge way, but in a visceral, olfactory one—déjà phew. It was like I knew your voice, your dog’s name, your barista order (it’s too complicated, by the way)—all from your scent. I felt an instant irrational intimacy that propelled me through decades. Now that I’ve spent a momentary lifetime with you… maybe we should meet?
