A crisp white shirt hangs on the door. A black leather belt lies coiled on the counter. A shelf lined with Tom Ford Private Blends tempts the eye and nose. Frederic Malle and Jean Claude Ellena are there too. The fragrances of a gentleman – refined and elegant – co-mingle in pleasant camaraderie. Remembering the fragrance counter at Barneys, when the collective scent of the store and all its olfactory offerings struck a resplendent chord of harmony but could not be narrowed down to a single source specimen, he smiles at what the years of procuring cologne have created: a personally-curated collection of scents.
He opens the glass door and carefully procures the bottle of ‘Bois D’Orage’. He brings the bottle to his nose and inhales, confirming the selection. Two quick sprays over his chest, where he will be the one to smell it the most. Some put it on their wrist or other pulse points. He keeps it closer to his heart; the accessory of fragrance has never been applied in the service of anyone other than himself.
Outside, dawn’s soft sky, echoed by some ridiculous late-season snow, lends a cool blue tone to the little square of light, buffered by a soft white shade. The bare branches of a dogwood allow a mostly unfettered view of the backyard. A late-to-arrive winter left most of the tan papery leaves of a Japanese maple intact and hanging onto their perches. The ruminations of a morning. The ablutions of a gentleman.
He tugs his sleeves and folds the French cuffs into place. A shiny new pair of cufflinks catches the light – silver crowns in facetious, fabulous fashion. He threads them through the slits then adjusts the sleeves as gentlemen have been fussing for ages. Sliding into a glen-plaid jacket, he pulls the sleeves out just enough to peek through the edge. A gentleman hints. A gentleman whispers. A gentleman holds his cards close to his chest.
Ladies with an attitude, fellows that were in the mood…
Stepping outside, a Prada bag slung over his shoulder, he inhales. Beyond the ‘Bois D’Orage’, a hint of spring rides on the breeze. No smile betrays his hope, and no one sees behind his Tom Ford aviators. He ducks into the waiting car and is whisked away.
Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.
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