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Perfume: feminine noun

Perfume: feminine noun

Sometimes I convince myself that I have learned to deal with it. Even if it is not so. It’s still hard to deal with today, but maybe I just found a different way to deal with this. It will also be the place that does not simplify things. This Bar seems perfect to remember, it would have been ideal for two, even she is sure would have liked. Outside table, strictly in the shade. I’m about halfway through the book I’m reading. Hervor is one of the protagonists, I’m rooting for her. I’m saving the ending for tonight, maybe on the terrace before I go to sleep. I’m at the parallel of the promenade, but if I turn my head a little I can see the big blue between the two colorful buildings. What a beautiful Salina. I sip a bitter coffee, always hot, even in summer. Because if it is hot the smell is more intense, persistent, toasted, almost chocolaty, it stays on you for hours, trouble drinking water after coffee!

There was no morning for her without coffee. The day did not begin. Whether it was work day, holiday day, 6am or even noon after a night of love or turbulent, the first thing to do was coffee. Even on vacation we brought the mocha of the house, because the taste of our coffee should never miss.
The scent of coffee, along with the scent of her skin upon awakening, made the aroma of that home unique. Then came the rhythm of his steps when he reached me in the kitchen, always barefoot like I am now in Salina. And the image of her, the contours of her body, the lines of her face, the taste of her lips in the first kiss of the day, a beautiful kiss, while with one hand I brushed her fingers and with the other I caressed her skin on one side, She usually slept with a short shirt that showed her a little belly.
Good morning!

A long breath and then the accelerated heart bring me back to the island and I realize that it’s time to go, to think about what to do on this day.
I head to the harbor while everything becomes a memory, because when a woman’s perfume is inside you then the scents that surround you are also different.
Oleanders, brooms, myrtles and oaks of the spontaneous Mediterranean scrub of Salina, together with the cultivations of vineyards and capers, mix in my nostrils with the painted walls of its essence.
In every season of our history, intercept miscellaneous of smells and scents, of places, of vegetation, of nature, but also of typical dishes and fireplace, of new car and sheets just washed, of walk-in closet, of towels, of scarves, of holiday homes. And again of the scent of the night, the scent of good night, the essence of waking up at night for a hug and for warm bodies that are approaching, the scent of good morning and “5 more minutes”.
And then there’s the smell of her. She’s more with me now than she ever was. I keep thinking that nobody can know him like I do.

Following this time the smell of fried eggplant I arrive in a narrow street, not too far from the port. Some outdoor tables seem cozy and I decide to stop.
I resume reading the book, Hervor prepares breakfasts at the “Reykjavík Cafe” thinking of his professor.
On the radio they pass “Twilight on the sea”, a song that could be the soundtrack of this island.
A glass of white wine, a fried paranza. On the table a jar with some basil leaves.
It’s just her. But it’s not true.

No thanks, that’s enough for today.

Walter Di Mauro


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Perfume: feminine noun