Azalea

Christopher Rene felt his eyelids growing heavy as he wiped invisible dust from tiny vials of English rose oil.

It was ten minutes to closing time, but the world outside seemed to be moving in slow motion. The perfume shop was warm and fragrant that evening, a cocktail of scents serenading his senses — and against the slow, steady, serene tick of the grandfather clock, sleep beckoned lovingly, promising English-rose-scented dreams.

The bell chimed; a customer had just entered the shop. Curious who would come in at this hour, he glanced sleepily into the foyer to see a beautiful woman in a floor-length red gown, stepping delicately over the threshold.

She was a vision in scarlet and chiffon, precious gems draped around her slender neck like constellations at nightfall. A white-blonde curl came loose from her chignon, briefly caressing her shoulder before she tucked it hurriedly behind a diamond-studded ear.

He stared at her, heart catching in his throat.

Pardon me, she ventured breathlessly, gossamer in the silence — Pardon me, I’m late for a ball, and I seem to have forgotten my perfume. She smiled warmly, a little apologetic, promising to come back and purchase something later. Might you have anything I could use in the meantime?