PFM Laurent Extra - First Meeting

Twenty-three bottles of Rose Fraiche lie in a large cardboard box, waiting to be placed on the display. The aroma is nothing special - a blend of rose water and citrus, a heavy fragrance not unlike a third-grade shampoo with a poor sillage and a mediocre longevity. The flask-shaped glass is rather pretty though, adorned with a finely carved rose bud, tied with a black ribbon. It’s not a great scent, but it will sell. With or without a little persuasion on your part.

Working at a perfumery has more benefits than just a steady paycheck. The amount of artificial scents is enough to cover up the unwelcome stench of human emotions, and give you a respite for a couple of hours a day, which relaxes you easier than you ever thought possible. The more material advantage is the perfumes themselves; you never have to spend your hard earned money on toiletries; not that you’d be able to afford most of the stock without the employee discount.

All in all, you know you lucked out finding this place two years ago, and whether it’s something you want to do or not, you’re determined to keep the position for as long as you can.

With that in mind, you pick up the box, placing it on top of the counter near a vase with a bouquet of cream-colored peonies in it - still fresh, newly bought.

The flowers brush against your elbow as you move to arrange the bottles in a neat row inside the glass cabinet. Hidden in the plain view like that, they are more than certain to attract attention, which is just as well. You need to get rid of all the old perfumes before you can replace them with something more… pleasant.

The task of unpacking each bottle, then placing it down is a mindless, repetitive one. It lets you focus your thoughts elsewhere while your hands move on their own, precise and mechanical. After working here for so long, you could do it in your sleep.

Engrossed as you are, you almost miss the quiet ring of the doorbell, placed on top of the archway. If not for the sound you wouldn’t have noticed the newcomer entering the shop, both hands stuck in the front pockets of his expensive pants.

You greet the customer reflexively, before you can even raise your head to take a look, but once your eyes meet, it’s hard not to startle at the sight.

The man is tall, well-built, not at all like the usual customers that visit the shop. His scent, which surprises you the most, is completely clear. That is to say, he doesn’t smell of anything. The look on his face is severe; a tight frown mars his otherwise attractive face as his sharp eyes slide around, finally landing on you. When he returns the greeting, his voice is soft, pleasant, not at all like you expected it to be.

Once he steps further inside, closing the door after himself, faint notes of a pricey shower gel and a nondescript cologne reach your nose. Still, no sign of any emotion on him, recent or lingering.

“Are you looking for something specific?” you ask, plastering on a polite smile and choosing a voice to match. “Or would you like to take a look first?”

The man blinks, as though taken off guard. His frown fades significantly, leaving his face open, more tranquil. He looks younger like this, fitting the awkward air around him.

He seems affluent; it’s not hard to guess, judging by the designer clothes, thoroughly polished dress shoes and the silver cufflinks on his pressed jacket. But he doesn’t fit here, in the luxury of the perfumery he’s like a fish out of water.

“No,” the man says, frown setting back on his features. “I am just looking around.”

“Of course.” Your practiced smile doesn’t waver, even as you return to setting up the exposition. “Let me know if you need something.”

“I will, thank you.” A polite one. Refreshing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you observe the man as he moves to the front window. Meticulously, he lifts every single bottle of perfume from the windowsill, gives it a perfunctory whiff, then places it down on the same spot, arranges it right back into place.

“Would you like some coffee grounds?” you find yourself saying, seeing that the man is done with the first few vials.

“Pardon?”

At the look of confusion in his pale eyes, you clarify, “to clean your sinuses? After smelling so many different scents they tend to mix together.”

“No, thank you. It’s not-” he starts, then abruptly pauses, eyes flashing to the window, then just as quickly back to you. “On the other hand, yes, please.”

With another poised smile, you lift a container of coffee grounds from the shelf behind you, walking a couple of steps to line up with the man. He murmurs another ‘thank you,’ when you pass him the case, lifting it to his nose as soon as he has it in his hand.

Using the moment of distraction, you follow the course of his earlier gaze. But there’s nothing outside, just the bar with its sign gleaming ‘open’, and the entrance door left slightly ajar.

When the man is done, he hands you the container, nodding once in thanks. Without looking, he takes the first flask of the perfumes he smelled - Eau de Noir; not something you’d choose for him -  and says, “I’ll take this one.”

“Sure thing.” You gesture at him to place the sample back on the windowsill, before taking out a new, packaged bottle from the cabinet. “Will this be cash or charge?”

“Charge,” he says, already pulling out his wallet. He doesn’t even ask for the price.

Silently, you pack the perfume into a black paper bag and exchange the package for the credit card, finalizing the transaction.

“See you again soon.” It’s a standard goodbye, easy to repeat; not that you expect to see that man ever again. He’s well mannered, though, so he responds in kind, surely, as though he means it.

But as soon as he departs, his presence likewise, vanishes from your memory, leaving no scent as a reminder, no trace of his presence.

You don’t think about him at all. Until you do.