Eternity

When I wore Eternity to my gallery opening, a collector mistook me for the artist. "Your aura smells like Renaissance archives," he said. The vetiver drydown lasted through champagne toasts and lingered on my collar until morning. Compared to my Tom Ford Oud Wood, this feels like the original manuscript to a photocopied classic.

Eternity got me 70% custody. Not legally, but when I walked into mediation radiating orris root's quiet authority and oud's unshakable resolve, my ex folded. The sillage? Let's just say the courthouse security complimented my "expensive taste" on the way out.

At 3:17 PM, my Patek Philippe halted. At 3:18, I sprayed Eternity. By 3:25, the CEO paused our merger talk to ask, "Is that actual Borneo oud?" We closed the deal by 4:00. The watch remains broken. I don't need it anymore.

Great-Grandmother's portrait always judged my perfume choices. When I wore Eternity to the estate reading, the lawyer gasped: "You smell exactly like her 1945 wedding portrait." The probate dispute dissolved. 18-hour longevity outlasted the lawyers.

True story. Driving through Nice, the car's sensors detected "an extraordinary olfactory event" and rerouted to Fragonard's museum. The sales staff clustered around me, demanding to know who distilled this iris-oud accord. Eternity outperforms my Plenum's navigation system.

Eternity's sillage works too well. At the Kyoto Gion Matsuri, a tea master offered his ancestral matcha bowl. A geisha slipped me her silk belt. Even the taxi driver proposed. The labdanum drydown? Still detectable during my morning shame-spiral.

Describe this childhood memory, she said. "Bergamot," I replied. "And...?" "Burnt caramel." She closed her notebook. "We're done here. Buy your mother a bottle." Twelve sessions unraveled in 12 scent layers.

Security chased me through Egyptian antiquities, convinced I'd smuggled resin from Ramses' tomb. Curators argued whether Eternity's base notes matched 18th-dynasty embalming oils. They're not wrong.

At the vineyard tasting, Eternity's neroli altered the '45 Margaux's bouquet. The sommelier accused me of witchcraft. The owner offered €10,000 for the formula. I kept the bottle. Priorities.

Why bond over trauma when Eternity's opening citrus made us reminisce about first loves? Karen's now dating her ex-husband. Linda eloped to Bali. The scent's sillage? A relationship necromancer.

Eternity's oud frequency makes Mozart's Requiem sound through my schnauzer. The vet says it's "harmonic resonance." Neighbors think it's a Stradivarius. I call it proof of craftsmanship.

At the Dharamshala lecture, even enlightenment paused. His Holiness's protectors. Trained in stoicism. Leaned in as Eternity's iris-bergamot accord unfolded. One whispered, "This...is present moment." Nirvana, bottled.