I keep the White Shoulders perfume bottle with the tiniest bit of oily liquid spread across the bottom. It sits for years, unnoticed, until some unexpected movement knocks it from the night stand.
I'll think to myself -"Self, it's time to toss that out."
It's more than 20 years old. White Shoulders can't possibly be popular anymore. And it must be rancid. "Throw it out, it's of no use. You don't need it anymore." But I'll need to check, to convince myself that it's useless now.
I'll unscrew the top and wave the small bottle in figure eights under my nose.
Before I can think, the smell of my mother grabs hold and she's bending towards me to say good night as she and my dad leave for their evening out. And she kisses me on the lips and I wipe away the red lipstick before I can taste it, and I say, "Mmmm, you smell good" and she says, like every time before, and every time after, "It's White Shoulders."
