Bamboo or anything green, like the apple, by the way, shines in my perception by absence, if I am not to understand them as indistinguishable components of the aqua note. Anyone who wants to believe that this discreet floral accent comes from roses and jasmine will be happy to believe it. And as if from distant shores it flutters across. The little lemon flies frightened into the background, from where it still sparks little yellow flashes of joy for a good two hours. I am taken with it and in a decidedly mild mood, when immediately afterwards an aquatic wave crashes over me, like most aquatic notes of select artificiality and completely inauthentic, but, I must admit, somehow and actually quite pleasant. So in the evening I press the spray button with all my heart, I arm myself inwardly - and am then first surprised by a wonderfully successful, delicately scented lemon: not sour, not synthetic, not even loud, but cheerful and light-hearted. Or that I read about scouring milk and Master Popper on Parfumo. Tonight I'll try it on." I don't have to tell her that I have a not entirely unprejudiced shyness towards universally popular mainstream fragrances. "Anyway, it's a slam dunk," I say in a barely trembling voice. "The thing that really gets on my nerves about you," she says and comes around the corner with her true motives, "is how you always smell of perfume! All feminine and so sweet and flowery, t-o-t-a-l annoying! Now by the way again." I smell discreetly of samsara, take a deep breath, let my wonderfully exclusive, select feminine perfume collection pass me by in my mind and digest the defeat. And I don't even try to argue with things like "individuality" and "expression of personality".
I explained about the Muggles once before on a blog. "Yeah - and?" "Would you like me to smell like you?" "Why not?" Schnucki's expression reflects absolute incomprehension. Honey's idea of appropriate scent dosage is below the threshold of perception. It sounds almost solemn "But Light Blue is your perfume!" Not that I ever smelled it on her. But today I am also really slow to grasp. "Is that - perfume?" Precious has to sigh again. I look, involuntarily stepping on the brakes, look again, this time longer. A cardboard box in the most beautiful sky blue appears, which she waves under my nose. "A present!" "Oh - for me?" I ask and add hastily, because that was of course a stupid question, "How nice! What is it?" "Open it." "When I stop driving, okay?" Schnucki sighs, takes the parcel from my lap and winds it up. So I start the engine and gently ask, "What is this?" "What does it look like?" asks Precious and rolls her eyes. In any case, caution is advised when dealing with her. Schnucki embodies what I like to think of an Amazon in less complicated times she would probably have cut off her breast to avoid getting in her way while archery, but times have become more complicated and so she is content to pierce her unhappy counterpart with glances despite her lovely appearance or at least to put a few well-chosen words to flight.
She has a name that expresses her mother's vain hope for female gentleness, and she would probably tear my head off if she found out about the pseudonym I gave her here. In real life, of course, her name is not Precious. "There!" she says and plops down on the seat next to me. My friend Schnucki tears open the door of the passenger side and throws a package on my lap.
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