Bliss

When I wore Bliss to the Guggenheim opening, a curator actually asked to photograph my neckline. "Your aura has a texture," she said. Eight hours later, as sandalwood mingled with champagne bubbles on my terrace, I realized this scent doesn't fade: it transmutes. Compared to my old Tom Ford, this is Renaissance fresco versus sidewalk graffiti.

Uber driver circled the block twice after I left his car. "Miss, your perfume...it's like my nonna's lemon grove in Sicily." Paid him extra to roll down windows and let Manhattan taste summer.

Wore Bliss to court. When he leaned in to mock the settlement, his nostrils flared. By afternoon recess, he'd offered 15% more alimony. Judge complimented my "grace under fire." The amber does things.

Boardroom tension broke when CFO muttered, "Why does it suddenly smell like money here?" Closed the merger with partners inhaling deeply near my wrist. Their pens moved faster.

Bliss outlasted the tsunami warning in Okinawa. Stranded for hours in a concrete shelter, strangers huddled closer. "You smell like hope," said a grandmother peeling tangerines. The vanilla isn't sweet but it's ancestral.

Left my jacket at Luton Airport security. Retrieved it three days later. The TSA agent blushed handing it over. "Kept it in our break room. Smelled like someone's rich widow." High praise from Essex.

Wore Bliss to my melanoma checkup. Dermatologist said, "Whatever you're using, it's the first scent that doesn't rot under UV light." Science agrees. This elixir photosynthesizes better than my ficus.

Danced with three strangers at the Marrakech souk. None asked my name, just "What witchcraft is this?" Now my ex texts "I smell you in my dreams" weekly. Let him haunt.

Blind date brought a translator app. By dessert, we'd shut our phones. The mimosa made her trace Cyrillic letters on my palm, Bulgarian for "You taste like sunrise."

Used Bliss as collateral when my Amex got declined at Cipriani. Maître d' nodded solemnly. "For this, we make exception."

Wore it to dad's funeral. Mom, who hadn't spoken since the stroke, gripped my wrist and rasped, "Capri 1969." Died smiling. The gardenia haunts beautifully.

Philharmonic cellist paused mid-Pachelbel to sniff my décolletage. "Finally, a fragrance that doesn't slaughter Bach." Encore involved his dressing room. The drydown? A standing ovation.