While leaving work today, a sampler vial of perfume I had in my makeup pouch spilled, resulting in wisps of a flowery scent wafting out of my handbag while I attempted to fish my security pass out.
I stood in the lift alone, looking over my shoulder, taking in the scent which was both familiar, yet alien at the same time, trying to seperate the different notes and trying to retrieve that stray memory it had surfaced in my mind.
And then I remembered: A large room with walls covered by shelves of bottles of different hues of amber, a small glass of mint leaves soaked in hot tea, smoke from a shisha, my uncomfortable perch on a woven chair.
This was the smell of that perfume shop from that magic day walking around the white hot sand of Saqqara.
The lift door opened. I stepped out, noticing for the first time my dance gear in a holdall dangling from the crook of my left arm from dance class at lunch today.
I hummed that Arabic pop song and walked on, in that cloud of mystery scent, towards home.
If you look closely enough, you’ll find that life is largely magic.
