Therapist: "Then please describe to me how it came about that your thoughts were again and again about this one fragrance ... what was its name?"
Addict: "Noir de Noir by Tom Ford!"
T: "Right, Noir de Noir ... so that your thoughts revolve around this one fragrance again and again. It's got some compulsive traits. You probably know that his name means "darkness of darkness"?!"
S: "I like to call him 'deepest darkness'. Or 'deepest blackness'."
T (between interpretation and gentle irony): "Sounds a little ... depressed?!"
S: "It's Mr. Ford's fault!"
T: "Hmm... So, how did it happen?"
S: "Hmm, yeah, so, um, I picked up his name somewhere on the internet and when I passed the Tom Ford counter in a big department store yesterday, yeah, that name just came back. Plopped up in me. Do you know them, this wafting gasy scented soup, which almost takes your breath away in such department stores? Then I always wonder how much sense it makes to test a fragrance there at all. But I thought to myself: If I ever get the chance ... So I wait well-behaved at the counter, in front of me two gentlemen in Barbour jackets. I'm listening to her dialogue with the strict-looking salesgirl. 'This Uth Wutt, is he jut?' '(Longer rehearsed praise song of the saleswoman including a 'He develops differently on every skin'.)' 'Then I'll take the ma' with me, finish me a 250ml thing.'' 'Do you want one, too? Goes today' on me?' 'I don't mean no, ne?'"
T: "Please come back to the topic, our session only lasts 50 minutes ..."
S: "Ah, sorry. Well, at some point it'll be my turn and I'll ask for some sprayers of the 'deepest darkness' and the Japanese plum..." (Ignores the therapist's confusion.) "The fine mist spreads like a promise, hits the test strip... I freeze... I already suspect it, smell it, take the piece of paper with the perfume, and..." (Grins and cries at the same time)
T: "Would you like a handkerchief?"
S: "No, it's okay."
T: "Please describe to me exactly what you have felt at this moment... smells. As detailed as possible. Put yourself back in that special moment."
S: "Well, I already said: department store, soup and so on ... The one with the deepest darkness and I only really started on the evening of that day."
T: "So the Noir de Noir lasted a really long time?"
S: "You bet! He'll retreat, but he won't be out of the world in no time. That's one who stays all day. Or even the night."
T: "And what happened last night?"
S: "I cooked myself rice with vegetables and then ..."
T: "No, with you and the Noir de Noir."
S: "Sorry, I'm so sorry that I'm always so erratic in our sessions. Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me."
T: "Everything's fine. So...?"
S (takes a deep breath): "I lead the scent strip to my nose and suddenly fall through time. Outside it dawns, the night approaches, the next day, I could feel it, it would rain, I am alone, alone with the spreading darkness. And there is from the first moment a soft rose, a deep rose, I have no words for there. I... I hate roses, actually, so their smell, I can't stand rose water either. But everything's different here. I don't just like this rose scent, it draws me under its spell, it presses me to itself, so that I hide everything else. There's something else, a slight astringency, bitterness, tender, but probably it gives the rose a corset, perhaps like a very unsquaky, very dark chocolate, with some spices, yes, a very, very light spiciness, a bit like a calorie-reduced truffle praline; and there is also an unsweet vanillainess that pushes the scent into the dark season or into the evening, but an evening that is not as hot as the evenings last summer ... Can you follow me? ... This is a long-lasting, almost a little heavier, but never a floral scent suffocated by intensity. But..." (Silence)
T: "Say it out... no blinkers. This is a protected room. No one else hears what we're talking about."
S: "... but all these technical descriptions - fragrances, durability, silage, cover - do not explain what fascinated me from the first quiet moment with the fragrance, so that my thoughts start to circle it, so that I don't want it to be bottled, but a bottle, so that I almost don't care about its price, because I want it all, all close and all to myself. And I don't care if anyone else smells me or not. I just want to wear it for myself. Because... not because I want to expand my collection. Not because I think it's the most mass-appealing crowdpleasing super long-lasting mindblowing pantydropping strength-of-the-roses complimentizer, or the perfume art's last spray, or the puzzle's missing piece ... No, it's a personal scent. I think I've heard that this happens to many other people as well, albeit each against a different biographical and olefactory background and for different reasons. It is a fragrance which connects with my own history, with my past, which is not only beautiful, noble and of high quality, but above all a fragrance FOR ME ..."
T: "Hmm, mhh."
S: "... I once had a girlfriend who might have been able to sit here, even if this is not the topic. She had a poster hanging from her room door, maybe from a band, or it was just a motif, I don't remember it exactly. On it was a young woman, more like a teenager, long blond hair, open, slender figure and small, pale skin, as if she had embalmed the moonlight, in a black, tightly laced corset, full lips painted late burgundy red, the background deep black, blacker than the night, a starless sky. Her facial expression somewhere between deep pain, longing and lust, brushed over with rigid silent fear. Of course, the poster wasn't hanging in my girlfriend's room by accident. And this is Noir de Noir for me: the memory of a feeling when looking at this picture in my friend's familiar room with its special scent, the feelings between us, our finite togetherness drifting through time. Noir de Noir, that heavy, suffering, erotic, subtle rose scent could have been her scent, even if she didn't have it; and because it could have been her scent and it all meant something to me, my thoughts now revolve around it and I want it, I want it not only as a latest catch, but as something meaningful, although I can only speak for myself. Noir de Noir, Mr. Therapist, stands for passionate decay, for pleasurable finiteness. I have no better words. Maybe what I mean is beyond language."
T: "Oh so, oh so ... Yes, thank you so much for being able to open up today. I'm just afraid our time is up. For today. But as you know, one night is always followed by another day. See you next time. And watch your account balance."