She leaves and something stays. The elevator doors close. The restaurant empties. The cab is already across the bridge. But there it is—still in the room, still caught in the scarf she left on the chair, still on the page of the book she was reading on your couch.
Still there.
A woman can control what she wears. She can rehearse what she says. She can decide when to arrive and whether to stay for the second drink. But she cannot control what someone notices once she’s gone.
Her scent stays behind to speak for her.
(Examined more fully in The Scent · A Dossier, which traces how fragrance becomes identity rather than adornment.)
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