A pleasant smell, one that opens the album of good and heart warming memories, takes over the air.
In my own home there is no aroma, or at least none I ever notice. Yet the fragrance in Audrey's condo takes me back to the meadows outside the village we hail from. I guess it helps that she has long grasses in cream vases and a subtle floral print to the wallpaper. But even with my eyes closed I can smell it, inhaling deeply like each breath is a time machine, and just for those few precious seconds we're twelve all over again with buttercups in our hair.
In the gardens I am greeted by the aroma of the roses. Between the neat beds of crimson bloom the fragrance is a time machine, granting me a fleeting visit to my grandfather's front yard. It was the envy of the neighbourhood in that sleepy retirement town, but how he and my grandmother loved it. To walk there was to be bathed in heady perfume. I would run between the beds, small shiny shoes over the petaled ground. In my mind it was confetti from the summer carnival and I was the princess again. The transitory evocation ends with passing strangers in loud conversation, landing me back in the present day.
In the bakery the air is more delicious than any flavour. Somehow the aroma captures everything good in there: the filter coffee, the various cakes, the danish pastries. The blend is perfection, but as a mixture of flavours they would be terrible- “coffee-cake-pastry”, I don't think so somehow. It's the kind of place I can sit in for hours, the air so perfumed without chemicals. I wish I could eat it, that my palate was as sophisticated as my sense of smell.
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