My Signature Scent

March 6, 2025

I’ve been taking Xanax to sleep, waking up, and taking more. I have to give credit to the novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation for inspiring my benzo-induced ease. Literature is alive and well.

Since I can’t wipe down the walls of my mind or dust between the creases of my brain, I’ve deep-cleaned my house instead. The smell of Pine-Sol on the floors reminds me of my grandparents’ home. They would leave the door open on summer days, and my senses would blend the sterile fumes with the warm breeze.

Growing up, my friends told me my signature scent was rose water and ivy, mixed with cigarette smoke. I was a victim of the Bath & Body Works craze, but no $16.99 body spray could mask the smell of sharing an attic bedroom in my grandparents’ house with my chain-smoking father. The blanket wall he built to separate our beds wasn’t enough to block out the curated scent of Pall Mall Smooths that clung to me.

How can someone so emotionally distant stay so embedded in my skin?

Now that I live alone, I’m not even sure what I smell like. Every time I finish a shampoo bottle, I try a new brand. I buy whatever laundry detergent is cheapest. I wipe down my countertops every night, scrubbing away any remnants of the day. I keep all my designer perfumes in a shoebox, hidden away because I don’t want people to get the wrong impression of me if they’re on display. But then I forget about them, and I leave the house odourless, without the choice of an identity trail.

I know that with the aroma of tequila on a night out, I’ll drink. After I drink, I’ll let the gastrointestinal burn of cocaine bury itself into my nasal cavity. After all of that, I’ll crave a cigarette.

The next morning, waking to the smell of smoke tangled in my hair, I’ll feel sick. And I’ll wash it all out with whatever shampoo I pick this month.