Scent. It’s a terribly neglected sense.
In romantic fiction particularly it is often relegated to detecting the
sandalwood soap the lead male prefers, the strawberry shampoo the lead lady
always buys or the musk of a well-sexed room the leads always leave in their conjoined
wake.
Forgotten is the smell of lilacs outside a restaurant’s front door. The
pop of peppers in the steak au poivre. The
crisp, clean scent of laundry fresh from a dryer.
Perhaps more understandably also denied is the stench of garbage in a
back alley, the clog of car exhaust on a busy city street or the cloying
chlorine-calling card a pool always sends ahead of a swim.
When a scene is lacking freshness, novelty or a grunt of reality, don’t
forget the sense of scent. After all, it’s as close as the nose on your face.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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