The Elevator
Date: Tuesday, March 11, 2025
Mood: Dizzy
Music: The Scent of Your Cologne by Christine Lavin
Dear Richard,
I held my breath for twelve floors today.
I was leaving a meeting in Century City. The elevator doors opened, and a man walked in. Suit, briefcase, on his phone. He didn't look like you. He didn't sound like you.
But he smelled exactly like you.
Acqua di Gio.
I know it’s a common cologne. Half the men in America wore it in 2008. But to me, that scent isn't a brand. It’s the smell of your neck when you came home from a shift. It’s the smell of your pillowcase I slept with when you were working nights.
It hit me like a physical blow. I felt weak, I had to grab the railing. The elevator is a small glass box, and suddenly, the air was thick with you.
I closed my eyes. For a split second, I wasn't in a high-rise in Los Angeles. I was in our bathroom in Cincinnati, watching you shave. You'd always look at me, looking at you. I could see the steam on the mirror. I could hear the water running. I could feel the heat radiating off your skin when I wiped off bits of shaving cream left on your face. We'd just stand there mapping each other's face. Not talking, just gazing for a long moment.
It was so real that when the elevator chimed at the lobby, I almost reached out to grab the stranger’s arm. I almost said, "Don't go."
I walked out into the sunshine, gasping for air.
It’s cruel, Richard. It’s cruel that a collection of chemicals in a bottle can slice through fifteen years of therapy and drag me right back to the start.
We had such a beautiful start.
I stood on the sidewalk for ten minutes, waiting for the scent to fade from my nose. I didn't want to go home to Levi smelling like a memory of you.
I wonder if you still wear it. Or did you change your scent when there was no more 'us'?
Love always,
Taylor
PS, If you're wondering, I stil smell like paint and turpentine.