Joy

I stopper frustration. I bottle longing. I mix sensuality.

My afternoon is bathed in replay of a kiss that ended too soon, so I do what I know how to do. I try to capture it. To reproduce a moment in time. What is the scent of a kiss you desperately need more of? What is the smell of something that tempts you too much?

You tell yourself you’ll resist.

You believe so heartily that the past mistakes will ground you. They’ll keep you from even tiptoeing into something risky. Relationships are fraught with danger, after all. They lead to closeness, and closeness leads to losing yourself. But when you’ve refrained and restrained, and you’re twisting and turning and wanting so much . . . at last, you give in.

You surrender to it.

It’s not that I can’t fight it. It’s that I no longer want to.

That kiss is still on my lips. I run a finger over my bottom lip absently as I work. I’m both here and there. Both in the lab and under the umbrella, the rain pattering around us.

I’m daydreaming about his lips brushing against mine as I combine odorant molecules like a chef might do with spices, trying to craft the illusion of wandering down the street in the rain, the scent of possibility heavy in the drops. A little of this, a little of that, some molecules from an earthy mix, some more from a citrusy, airy one, another from the essence of jasmine.

I draw a deep inhale.

It’s not yet there, but it’s something.

There’s a knock on the door. I look up to see Marisol in the window. I motion for her to come in. She enters, a thoroughly professional smile on her face. “How’s everything going? I’ve been sending progress reports to the corporate headquarters raving about you.”

“Thank you,” I say, speaking in French. “I am grateful.”

She nods appreciatively and gestures to the vials and tubes in front of me. Switching to English, I give her a quick update on what I’m working on.

“May I smell it?”

“It’s not finished yet.”

“I don’t mind.” She strides to me, and I offer her the little tester. She wafts it under her nose and murmurs, “C’est fantastique.”

The fact that she said that in French—a perfectly au naturel reaction—gives me a little thrill.

“You need to keep working on this,” she adds.

“I will.”

We chat more, and she thanks me again for my time and leaves. When she’s gone, I daub the tiniest bit on my neck, then I head out for the night. I’m meeting Elise for a drink. Wine is a requirement at times like these. When a man kisses you breathless, then takes off before you can make any plans, you’re legally required to drink buckets of vino.

At a brasserie, I order two glasses, and Elise nods her approval at my choice and my efforts to speak the language with the waiter.

“Your French is much better. Your classes must be working,” she says, sketching air quotes. Her brown hair is twisted high on her head in a bun, and since she came from the office, she’s sleek and elegant in a pencil skirt and a clingy white blouse. Her stilettos are a foot tall.

“They seem to be,” I say.

“And I can tell you’re actually taking classes. I’d have thought you were spending all night fucking.”

My eyes widen. “Elise.”

She tuts me. “Oh, please. You know that’s what you want to be doing. I’m amazed you’re learning anything beyond the best positions for multiple orgasms.” She winks, looking librarian-sexy in her black glasses. “Seriously, tell me what’s going on with the Brit.”

I give her the quick version of the last several weeks then detail today’s turn of events. She sighs delightedly. “And you swooned, and now you want to know what’s next?”

“Yes.”

She scoffs. “Men are so frustrating, but even so, please tell me you’re not going to play the ‘will he call me, won’t he call me’ game?”

I furrow my brow. “No. I know he’ll call. I was more concerned—”

She grabs my cheeks, cupping them. “I love you. I absolutely love you.”

“What was that for?” I ask when she drops her hands.

“For being bold. For knowing you’re not going to play a waiting game. Women spend too much time waiting for men. When you want something, you should go for it.”

“I’d like to think I’m done with games. I suppose the only real question is—how risky is this? He’s still my translator, and I want everything to go well while we work together for the next month until the assignment ends.”

The waiter brings our wine, and I thank him, then Elise offers her glass to clink with mine. “To friendship, and to the possibility of a new lover for you.”

“I’ll happily drink to both,” I say and take a sip.

Elise sets her glass down. “This is what I think about the level of risk. You’re going to have great sex with him, right?”

A ribbon of heat unspools in me as I imagine the kind of sex we’ll have. “Of course.”

“Then, by my estimates, great sex should keep you going for a full month. You have nothing to worry about. By the time the shine is off, the job will be ending and you’ll be able to look back without regret.”

But I don’t like the ending she’s writing for our story. In a wobbly voice, I posit what may be the truest risk of all. “What if I want it to keep going?”

She draws a deep breath. “Then, you’ll need to let him know you want a full-time lover—personally, I’m partial to the part-time ones. Until then, you simply enjoy every second of the time together, and you live for the moment. Moments are all we truly have.”

Her voice downshifts to a tune I’ve never heard before. It’s almost melancholy, and it’s so unusual for my outgoing and daring friend. I raise my glass, trying to lighten the mood. “May some of the next moments in life contain fantastic orgasms.”

Elise tips her glass to mine. “Those are my favorite moments.”

But as she drinks, I swear I see something else in her eyes. Something sad. Something that makes me wonder why Elise believes so strongly in living for the moment.

I’m not sure I’ll garner the answer today, so I reach into my bag for a tiny tube. “Pilfered it from the lab,” I whisper, handing it to her.

“Naughty girl.” Her eyes twinkle, the sadness wiped away.

“Something new I’m working on. Tell me what you think.”

She uncaps it, and runs the top under her nose. “Mmm.”

Her murmur makes my heart do a little jig. That’s the sound of someone pleased. She closes her eyes. “It’s a summer evening, when I waited for a man to meet me at the fountain. The sun dipped lower in the sky as I checked my watch. The water and the stones behind me were damp and earthy, and my heart filled with longing, then desire, when he arrived and kissed me like the world disappeared.”

When she opens her eyes, she offers a wistful smile. “He’s long gone, but this perfume is here to stay.”