I like to torture myself, I guess — I ask all my friends about the ways I can't know the world. Sarah, a lithe young Georgian, says she wears her boyfriend's shirt whenever he's gone. "His smell can bring me to my knees," she says. "Ever been in a fight with your boyfriend, but you get a whiff of his scent, and then you just want to hug?" Alas, I seem to be lacking my primal just-forget-it button. Josh says I could give Woody Allen a run for his money. "You don't need to analyze everything," he tells me over dinner that night. But at least Woody Allen has a working sinus cavity. Josh stabs at a massive burrito with a fork, and like he does with everything — whisky before he drinks, ink before he draws, me before he nuzzles — he puts the morsel to his nose before he eats it. "Just live your life," he tells me, like it's as easy as breathing. Is it the schnoz? For every action I perform, I always have a novel-length monologue about it in my head. I question the hell out of anything, from turning left at a one-way stop to putting my arm around my boyfriend's waist. It's always been a big obstacle in my love life. I'm incapable of flirting without mentally debating all the ways my attempts at seduction might be interpreted: as loving, or silly, or stupid, or ironic, or whorish, or rude. Josh doesn't understand why I can't let go, why I'm never swept away. Why can't I just kiss him? Why have I never been able to just kiss anybody? Is it impossible for me to appreciate hormones? Is it because my primal self — my lizard brain, my animal nature — has gone awry? "Aren't you ever just turned on?" Josh asks me. We're both sitting half-dressed on the sofa. I have my nose in a book.
"I guess," I tell him, "but not right now." I'm re-reading Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. It's about a man named Grenouille with a sense of smell so strong he can walk through black nights without stumbling. One day he discovers a scent, and its description is something I wish I could appreciate on more than a linguistic level: "The odor came rolling down the rue de Seine like a ribbon... This scent was...like a piece of thin, shimmering silk…like pastry soaked in honey-sweet milk." Grenouille's sense of smell — and his attraction to the girl who is the source of the honey-milk scent — are so strong that he can't stop himself from killing her to distill it. I can't imagine this kind of passion, but I long to feel something so primal. I need to need something so much I could murder it. Forget about sex; what about love? I look up at Josh, who wants to kiss me, who sniffs my glands (the armpit, the lap). Am I releasing some sort of signal? I can't be — I don't feel like kissing; I want to read and continue to do so. I'm in control and, at the moment, Josh isn't — he fingers my hair, my neck. Will he do this to me: smash me, grind me away? Has this process already begun? Everywhere I go, my world is stale club soda to everyone else's two-hundred-dollar reserve Pinot. Navigating the crowds of San Francisco, I don't pause before the perfumery, the flower shop; I can't sense the homeless man in a black quilt at night until I've tripped over him. I don't know what it's like to walk into a Chinese bakery like my friend Alex, who stops short, tasting the air, who takes a deep breath with her whole body and says, "Jesus, I wish I could live here forever." A Russian stranger sidles up to me at the BART station. He has the most peaceful look on his face when he tells me, "You smell just like my daughter did before her wedding." And now, I remember my father, five years ago at my mother's funeral, sitting in a church pew, grasping the petals he'd snatched roughly from each arrangement. He clutched roses, lilies, little purple blooming things I've never known the name of, and pressed each bloom into his face, weeping and weeping as though I could not see him. And my boyfriend. After a long day of wine-tasting, I wash my face with an exfoliating scrub made of ocean salt, limes, coconut, grapefruit, violets, and vodka. I crawl into bed with Josh, our lips tinged purple from Merlot we've drunk straight from the bottle. He's half-asleep, he puts his nose to my cheek and inhales. He smiles without knowing it. I want to ask him what love is. I want to tell him the story of my friend Jenny, who knew she had to end it with her husband when his smell no longer pleased her. I want to ask him how to be sure of your feelings if they're all in your head and not your body; I want to ask if these things I think I feel could ever be called feelings. Instead, I go with my gut: I wrap myself around him and try to sleep. n°
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