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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


06.05.03, thursday evening

Today I could smell it. Waiting at the stop light after work, I smelled it again. The perfume at the nape of her neck. Nothing by Calvin Klein. No Chanel No. 5; she was no longer young and stylish and serenely handsome, posing for photos as a bride at Disneyland. When my parents rode together into "It's a Small World" in 1975, did they hold hands?

Florescent pink glaze. Wet cake flour, grease, discreet sweat. Dad wore it too. It stank up dad's truck for years, even after the donut shop was sold.

Now it is my scent too. I can smell it, on my sweater, in the webbing between my fingers. An intermingling of Torani syprups, coffee grounds, bleach water. Discreet sweat.






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