Obsidian

I wore Obsidian to the Guggenheim gala. By the third champagne flute, a curator mistook me for an installation artist. "Your aura has gravitational pull," he insisted, following me through six galleries. The tobacco-tinged drydown outlasted his interest. 14 hours later, my Uber driver asked if I distilled moonlight.

After one spritz, my yoga instructor paused mid-chaturanga. "You smell like a sacred text they burn heretics for reading." The vetiver-animalic blend clung through hot yoga, shifting from ominous to ethereal as sweat mingled with its layers. By savasana, three students asked for the name. I lied.

Boardroom tables reek of desperation and stale coffee. Obsidian carved space like a black hole swallowing light. The CFO, a Chanel No. 5 loyalist, leaned in during my presentation. "Whatever you're wearing just cost me my focus." Promotion secured by noon. Scent still detectable on my collar at midnight.

A detective stopped me at Grand Central. "Ma'am, are you transporting illegal oud?" He smelled my wrist, blinked twice, then wrote his number on a summons. The truffle-patchouli fusion outlasted his interest. 18 hours later, my sheets still hinted at incarceration fantasies.

During settlement negotiations, his Tom Ford Ombré Leather wilted beside my Obsidian. By the third hour, he demanded the name "for client gifts." The vanilla-musk base lingered on the legal documents, a permanent reminder that I won.

My florist wept. "The peonies smell cheap next to you." Guests claimed the air tasted like "divorce champagne and truffled regret." Obsidian's sillage framed photos better than my veil. Now ex-husband kept the ring. I kept the bottle.

Describe this childhood trauma again, she urged, pen scratching as Obsidian's cocoa-amber notes deepened. "Your scent's more articulate than you." Sessions shortened from 50 minutes to 35. Cure via olfactory warfare.

Matches tripled. Dates lingered over wrists instead of wine. One poet translated my scent into a sonnet: "Thy skin, a palimpsest of fungal wisdom." Obsidian's 20-hour longevity outlasted his attention span.

Baron, my Afghan hound, ignores Dior and rolls in the dirt. Obsidian made him sit. The vet says dogs detect truffle terroirs humans can't. Now he heels without treats. Scent as alpha dominance.

Cigar aficionados begged to know which Cuban I'd smoked. When I revealed Obsidian, they demanded wrist-sniffing rights. My Davidoff collection gathers dust. Addiction transferred.

They thought I'd stolen artifacts. "Madame, you emit Tutankhamun's tomb." Curators debated my scent's provenance for 45 minutes. Obsidian outlasted their expertise, still detectable when they apologized.

Father O'Brien arrived to purge my "demonic energy." He anointed my wrists with holy water. "Child, whatever's haunting you smells divine." We split the last rites fee. The scent? Eternal.