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The blouse hanging in the closet smells like curry, spicy curry. Green or red curry brought to a low-set table on a hammered tin platter by a young attractive waiter whose name, written on his name tag, she cannot pronounce. There might be sweat dripping down his face as the smell of his skin crawls down to his wrist; he sets the platter on the table before her, smell of man and curry mingling together in an arousing and obtrusive attack of her senses.

That is what the blouse smells like.

It hangs in her closet. A week before it hung on a rack in that thrift store. It is a beautiful blouse, one hundred percent silk with a pale toile pattern set against white. She looks stunning in it. When she first put it on in the dressing room that had a broken mirror and the words ROCK N RIOT written in permanent marker on the wall behind her, she knew that she still looked beautiful, despite its second-handedness, despite her work hair-do, despite being tired and still needing to go to the gym. The shirt is beautiful, but it has that smell. In the thrift store she didn't notice it because her body adjusted to the smell of everything, it overtook her. But now that smell overwhelms her. And she has a date. No time to take it to the dry cleaners.

She will meet him at the restaurant. And she will have curry waiting on the table before he even gets there. And they will shake hands at the beginning of the date and at the end they will embrace. And to him she will smell wonderful.

Story by:

Laura Beason

8 October 2012

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