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Hua Aiai
Tang dynasty. The first of the Hua line of moli perfumers and personal perfumer to Empress Wu.
Heart note //Call true love
Base note //Sandalwood
I used to like being alone. I adored solitude when it meant long walks or curling up on the sofa reading under a faded quilt with a cup of lemon tea.
But over time, solitude built to loneliness, and loneliness?
Loneliness sucks.
***
Toronto is the seventh city I’ve lived in since leaving Vancouver more than a decade ago. The longest I’ve stayed in one place was three years. That was Montreal, with its fashionable citizens and cobblestone streets so beloved by tourists looking for an authentic steak frites experience without the hassle of going overseas.
My shortest stay was Winnipeg, where the snow and I arrivedwithin two days of each other in mid-October. Through November, the dusty white layers climbed higher on my windowsill until they achieved the crenulated aspect of a geographic formation. In December, my nose froze shut. The barista at the coffee shop, who was the person I spoke to most, assured me it was a dry cold and I’d get used to it. I nodded politely but knew I wouldn’t.
Call me a weakling, but I packed my bags and, a day and a half later, emerged, cramped and blinking, from the VIA train into the dim grandeur of Toronto’s Union Station. Granite-faced commuters gripping coffee and overstuffed bags rushed around me as though I were a pillar, looking as if they could only bear to let themselves think of their pasts and futures, never their presents. I fetched my own coffee and thought I could stay awhile.
I’ve been in Toronto for thirteen months now and have a routine I like—and probably need more than I admit. Today, for example, I’m doing the same thing I do every two weeks, which is arrange the window display at my little perfume shop, Ile de Grasse. Well, half a perfume shop, since I share space with Auntie’s Closet Vintage.
On the counter are nine fresh rosebuds, ivory petals barely exposing their crimson centers. It’s a number I may have chosen unconsciously for good luck, because despite trying to slough off most of my mother’s superstitious dictates, the habits and rituals of childhood remain hardwired.
As I’m about to play ikebana master, I notice a small chip on the edge of the Blue Mountain Pottery vase I’d snatched up in a thrift store, and run my finger over the rough brick-red interior. Unacceptable. Into the garbage it goes, replaced by a modern blue amphora after I confirm that it’s flawless.
Once the flowers have the exact symmetrical effect I want, I carry the arrangement to the bay window. A teenage couple is making out on the sidewalk, her hands clutching his jacket and their heads bent at such unnatural angles—his down and hers up—that my own necktwinges. I restrain myself from banging on the window to startle them into fleeing like stray cats and turn my attention to organizing.
After a few moments of fussing, the display is perfect. I can depend on Ana, who owns Auntie’s Closet, to leave it alone once I set it up. It had been a lucky day for me last year when I’d passed by just as Ana was placing her sign looking for a pop-up partner to share rent and help bring in more customers. The flexibility of subletting suits me much better than the legal chains of leasing my own space. Although our tastes aren’t aligned—she sells exquisitely curated modern and vintage clothes and accessories, the louder the better—Ana’s place suits me and, strangely, complements my more austere displays.
We have a good thing going, at least on the financial front. I make fragrances, and since Kensington Market is a tourist destination as well as a local shopping district, the people who come are ready to be seduced by a new perfume and, feeling luxurious, splurge on want-don’t-need items like one of Ana’s pretty scarves. And vice versa.
I’m testing a silver heart-shaped clutch in the display when the door bangs open to reveal Ana, accompanied by gusts of cold wind and the contradictory smell of a sunny beach afternoon. She stomps her boots on the brown coir welcome mat, careful to remove the grayish slush that blankets the ground outside. We mop at least four times a day in the winter to stop the industrial road salt from eating through our floors, swabbing with a huge janitorial mop that’s as stringy as a bad witch’s wig. The floors were painted in the fall, a turquoise Ana adores that reminds me of a 1950s swimming pool. I’d wanted a nice chestnut stain to bring out the natural wood but lost the coin toss.
“Hi, Ana.” I test the soil of my gardenia plant. My counter is painted the same off-white as the rest of Ana’s fixtures, and the variegated green of my plants looks influencer-good against the neutral background. They’re accompanied by rows of my fragrances in their slim obsidian bottles, lined up with the precision of a championship marching band.
“Hi, yourself.” Satisfied with the state of her boots, Ana adjusts the mat, which inexplicably bears the image of a chinchilla and reads “Just chinchillin’.”
“I changed the display,” I say.
“I noticed. It screams, ‘Valentine’s Day is a capitalist venture that encourages the consumption of material goods as a proxy for affection, but since you have to do it, better buy something cool.’”
“That’s what I was going for.”
“Then achievement unlocked.” She strides across the room and leans over to shove her neck close enough for my nose to squish tight against her chilled skin. “Smell me.”
“Tempting, but I’ll pass.” I step back to rub my face. “Remember we talked about those pesky things called boundaries?” It had been a necessary conversation because Ana’s love languages are extremely touchy touch and open, honest communication. My love language is evasion.
Ana adjusts the fluffy brown bangs that peek out from her hot-pink beret, which she insists on calling raspberry. “I have a new perfume. You make perfume. I want your opinion.”
“I can’t smell it when you suffocate me like that. Also, shouldn’t you ask before you spend a hundred and thirty-seven dollars plus tax for thirty milliliters, and not after?”
“That was a fearsomely accurate price guess.” Ana’s huge hazel eyes widen enough for me to see the whites. “How did you know?”
“Because this is my job, and you are very obviously wearing Plage by Lafayette. Which, by the way, is unseasonable. It’s a summer marine fragrance, designed to evoke the scent of ocean water and sand.” I finish dusting the leaves of my jasmine. I love white flowers with distinctive scents. Give me a powerful tuberose or sweet orange blossom any day. “On you, there’s also a hint of draft beer that I don’t recall being part of its fragrance profile.”
