Aromatherapy

"We have a lovely salmon special this evening," said the waiter. "It's served grilled on a bed of sautéed greens, with a side of basmati rice. Everyone who's ordered it has loved it."
He's quite a looker, thought Gail. Probably an actor, and certainly half her age.

"Well, sir, how would you compare it with, say, the bouillabaisse?"

"It's hard to compare the two dishes," replied the waiter. "I mean, if you were in the mood for a stew…"

He had clear, bronzed skin and eyes like green gems. With that smooth complexion, he couldn't be more than twenty-five. His fingers, holding the pen at the order pad, were long and slender.

"Ma'am?" inquired the waiter. "So, you wanted the bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, the bouillabaisse…" mused Gail. Yes, that would be warming, stimulating. "That would be exactly right," she decided out loud.

"OK, then." The waiter scribbled down her order. Gail thought she detected a note of amusement in his voice, but when she looked up at his handsome face, it was blank of expression. She made an attempt to be discreet in her survey of the waiter's physique as he walked away. Then she sighed, glad of the chance to relax after a long, frustrating day.

Her morning had begun with a 7 a.m. phone call from her mother.

"What is it, Mother," she grouched.

"Still sleeping?"

"Not anymore," Gail retorted.

"Well I've been up since 5 a.m. I just love to see the sunrise, it's a much nicer way to start the day than lazing around. So what are you up to today, you're probably fiddling around mixing up those odors?"

"Mother, how many times do I have to tell you, they're not odors, they're essences. And I'm not a "smell lady," I'm an aromatherapist," exhaled Gail.

"Aroma-whatever, it's still a bunch of malarkey."

"It's not malarkey," Gail snapped. She couldn't believe they were having this argument yet again. "It's a science that's been around for 80 years, and besides, it pays my rent."

"If you'd been smart, you would've found a husband to pay your rent," muttered her mother.

"Mother, as long as we're on the subject, you're divorced!"

"Your father and I were together for 25 years before he left me for another woman. And it may not have seemed so to you, but we had a very happy marriage."

Gail yawned.

"I just think," continued her mother," that your life isn't normal. I mean, you sit around in that shoebox of an apartment with all of that hocus-pocus, those oils and crystals. For all I know, you're conducting séances in there every day."

"Mother!" Gail protested. Only one séance had ever been held at her apartment, and not one spirit had been successfully conjured.

"And then, at night you spend all that money at Café Boulud and Balthazar, and you can't even find a nice man to go with you."

"Mother, damned if I’m not going to Balthazar because I don't have a husband. I'm hanging up now!"

Gail slammed down the phone and reached into the wooden caddy on her nighttable. She pulled out a vial of valerian oil, and held it up to her nose. Inhaling deeply, she tried to clear her mind of all negative thoughts, and then replaced the vial in the compartment marked "Tension/Insomnia." Mercifully, the oil worked its magic and she soon fell back asleep.

Now, at the dinner table, the vapors of tomato, wine and garlic overpowered the subtle valerian in her thoughts. The waiter lifted the lid off of a large earthenware pot. Gail closed her eyes and breathed in a perfect bouquet of saffron, fennel and the saltiness of the sea.

Ten minutes later, when the waiter returned to ask her opinion of the bouillabaisse, Gail was still sitting with her eyes closed, almost as if in meditation. Her plate was untouched.
"Ma'am," inquired the waiter, "are you alright? Is there anything wrong with the bouillabaisse?"

Gail smiled, gratified at his concern. "Oh, no… it's extraordinary."

"But you haven't even taken a bite. If you're not satisfied, I can tell the chef and he will prepare something else for you."

"That won't be necessary," said Gail. "I am truly enjoying the experience of this meal. You see, I always drink in the essence of a food before I eat."

"How do you do that," wondered the waiter.

"Through the sense of smell, which is 50 percent of taste. You analyze the top notes, the balance of flavors."

The waiter's green eyes widened. "You seem to know a lot about this."

"Well, I should know, being an aromatherapist."

"An aromatherapist!" the waiter exclaimed. "I have a past-life regressionist and a reflexologist, but I've never had an aromatherapist. Maybe you can give me your card."

"Certainly." Gail happily dug around in her handbag.

"So where is your practice?"

"At my apartment near the Museum of Natural History," replied Gail, hoping she wasn't blushing.

"That's right next to my reflexologist. I will definitely have to call you. My name is Brent. By the way, can I get you anything else?"

"No, everything is perfect." Gail was radiant. "Everything."

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The phone rang. Seven a.m., on the dot.

"I'll bet you're still sleeping!" accused her mother.

"Mother, only lunatics awaken at 7 a.m." Gail had been up until four, experimenting with aromas of seduction. Brent was due to arrive this afternoon.

"Lunatics spend all day sniffing things. Is that what you're doing today?"

"As a matter of fact, Mother, I have a very handsome new client coming over later, so I need to prepare. Goodbye."

Gail reached for the valerian extract, but to her dismay, she'd used it all up. Then, the next-door neighbor's bed began to bang rhythmically against her wall. Gail turned up her white-noise machine and put on her Ocean Harmonies CD, but she could not drown out the thudding and moaning. There should be a law against headboards, she thought.

With a sign of resignation, she got out of bed. She hadn't quite perfected her blend of passion-inducing essences. Luckily, she still had an ample supply of vetiver and Chinese musk.

When Brent had called her to set up an appointment, they had talked for an hour, and Gail learned a lot about him. He confirmed her suspicion that he was a struggling actor, but surprised her when he told her that he was a Libra. Now, as she worked, she kept these personality traits in mind. The fragrance she was preparing would embody both charisma and balance.

After a couple hours of measuring, pouring and inhaling, Gail triumphantly breathed in her new creation. She felt that she had captured the essence of Aphrodite Herself. Stretch marks or no, there wasn't a man alive who would be able to resist her now.

Gail spent the remainder of the morning preparing for Brent's visit. She did some creative visualization, lit calming incense and balanced her chakras. She donned a loose-fitting rose-colored dress and doused herself liberally with the seductive fragrance.

At three o'clock sharp, Brent rang the bell. He looked absolutely dashing in a forest-green shirt that matched his eyes.

"I'm so glad you could see me today," he said. Gail smiled as she led him to her study. They sat across from each other at her desk and she gazed at him admiringly. What bone structure.

"It smells wonderful in here. I knew you were the real thing." Brent stretched and arranged his muscular frame in the chair.
His expression became earnest, and he leaned on the desk, propping his chin with his tanned forearms. "So, I really hope you can help me…I need a formula for a really difficult problem."

"What sort of problem?" asked Gail. He looked perfect to her.

"Uh…" he stammered. "Impotence."

"My dear," Gail crooned, "there's no cause for alarm. I could cure you of that ever so easily."

Brent looked at her anxiously. "It's not me. It's my boyfriend."
Gail's jaw slackened. "Your… boyfriend."

Crestfallen, she took a deep breath. It took all of her efforts to conduct the rest of the session smoothly. After Brent left, she went to sleep.

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A month later, Gail was rearranging her bedroom furniture according to the principles of Feng Shui when Brent called.

"I just wanted to thank you so much," he gushed. "That clove stuff really did the trick. My boyfriend is himself again. Now that our sex life is back to normal, my whole world has changed. I even auditioned for an Off-Broadway show and got the lead!"

"Really, that's wonderful! What's the name of the show?"

"Darren Does Dallas. I hope you'll make it. I'm sending you a ticket and I want you to come backstage afterwards to say hi. And my boyfriend wants to thank you himself. We owe this all to you."

Although Gail was still slightly heartbroken, she couldn't help but feel flattered that her craftsmanship had been so valued by Brent. All of those hours she'd spent perfecting a formula had really helped to improve his life. She congratulated Brent and told him that she was sincerely looking forward to his performance.

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On the night of the play's debut, the auditorium was packed. The audience was spellbound before Brent, who exuded an irresistible sensuality. He's probably wearing my scent, thought Gail with pride.

After a standing ovation, Gail navigated through the endless swarm of people to the door that led backstage. She encountered a red-faced, perspiration-soaked Brent.

"Hey, Gail!" He grinned broadly. "I'd like you to meet some people." He put his arm around a short, balding man. "This is Adam, my boyfriend. Adam, this is the woman who changed our lives!"

"Thank you for your amazing fragrance." Adam shook her hand forcefully.

"And this is Manny," my reflexologist." Brent motioned to a grey-ponytailed man wearing a necklace of crystals and a multi-colored vest. "Gail's an aromatherapist."

"Very pleased to meet you," said Manny. "Actually, I noticed your aura in the lobby. You have a truly beautiful energy about you. Could we share a wheatgrass juice sometime?"

"I'd be delighted," Gail said warmly.

One Green Olive

"Congratulations," Jack slapped him on the back. "What does she look like?"

Frank took a sip of his beer and thought a moment. "Well, she's really cute. Kind of like a classier Britney Spears, blonde hair, great body."

"Have you been back to her place yet?" asked Jack.

"Yes," Frank smiled.

Jack chuckled, and then a quizzical look came over his face. "Frank, when you've gone home with a girl you really like, have you ever – snooped around her things, like, to get a better idea of what she's about? I look in the first drawer; that's where they usually keep their panties."

"I look in the fridge," said Frank.

"The fridge!" Jack exclaimed. "Don't you know that you can tell much more about a woman by her underwear drawer?"

Frank finished his beer and motioned to the bartender to refill his glass. "What can you tell?" he asked.

"Well," began Jack, "there's the color. They say if they're white, that she's playing innocent – if they're red, she's really wild in bed, but if they're black, watch out."

Frank tried to remember what color Monica had worn, but he hadn't the slightest idea; he'd been too busy looking at the rest of her. But he was sure that his friend was wrong. For Frank, a woman's refrigerator had always been the foolproof indicator of the future of his relationship with her. He thought of Jackie. She'd been fond of quickies, didn't even want foreplay. And their relationship was over almost before it began. When he'd opened the door of her refrigerator, he saw nothing but leftovers and a half-empty container of lo mein. No substance.

After Jackie, he'd dated Gloria, whose refrigerator was so full of food that Frank was surprised the door actually shut. Most of their dates consisted of her cooking him a huge meal, after which he'd be so stuffed that he could barely sustain an erection. In hindsight, he wondered if that had been Gloria's strategy. But when he'd broken up with her, she'd sent him layer cakes for weeks. The first week, she sent chocolate raspberry. When Frank had tasted the icing, he'd briefly entertained thoughts of reconciling with Gloria, of giving her the benefit of the doubt. He wondered if maybe he had gotten an erection but just hadn't seen it underneath his distended belly. His doubt intensified five weeks after the breakup, when he received a particularly sublime strawberry shortcake. By the next week, Frank still hadn't met anyone remotely interesting, but the cake delivery abruptly stopped. (Soon, he noticed that a friend of his was beginning to put on weight.)

Monica was the kind of girl that Frank couldn't believe he'd had the good fortune to date. She seemed like she could have any guy she wanted. Frank had only been to her apartment twice, so it was too soon for him to check out her refrigerator. (He'd already made the mistake of premature refrigerator exploration with Janet, who turned out to be completely psychotic. He should've known, with that Velveeta-stuffed beef jerky he found in her butter compartment. After they'd had sex for the first time, Frank, while clad only in his boxers, had taken it upon himself to conduct a full-scale inventory of the icebox. However, Janet spent less time in the bathroom than he'd anticipated, and she caught him with his face in the freezer. "You men are pigs!" she shrieked with disgust. "All you want to do is eat and screw!" Frank was so startled that he bruised his nose on a Popsicle. Before he had a chance to explain, he found himself out on the street, half-naked in February. Shivering under the streetlight, he felt woefully misunderstood. He hadn't been trying to take advantage of Janet; he'd only been trying to better understand her.

"Hey, Frank," Jack interrupted his thoughts. "You look smashed. Are you going to Monica's place after this?"

"No, I don't see her till the weekend."

"Well, when you do," burped Jack, "make sure you look in that first drawer and get back to me."

Frank nodded, but he'd provoked such a horrifying reaction with his refrigerator snooping that he couldn't bear to think of what Monica would do if she found him looking through her underwear. (She'd probably think he wanted to wear it.)
_______________________________________________________
Frank was glad he was on his way to meet Jack at the corner bar. He wasn't sure Jack would understand, but he'd made an unsettling discovery at Monica's place, and he had to tell someone.

For the third week of being in a "relationship," Frank thought he was doing pretty well. He was trying to be a good listener, to abstain from mentioning past girlfriends, and to always put the toilet seat down. This princely behavior had earned him three whole weeks with lovely Monica, and more hours than he could have imagined in her bedroom. Frank was beginning to feel like he could relax a bit. So, on this cheerful Saturday morning, after another romp with Monica, he decided to venture into her kitchen. The coast was clear; she was a on a phone call with her mother.

They had never shared a meal at her apartment, so he hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of her refrigerator. Monica didn't seem like the take-out type, but neither did Frank see her as someone whose shelves would be overflowing; she was too – poised. Maybe there would be a Boursin, a carton of organic eggs, a few bottles of Thai condiments. Some plum tomatoes, plain whole-milk yogurt, and perhaps a folded paper package of smoked salmon. Monica would organize all of these items beautifully. There would be no leftovers more than a week old, like at Frank's place, and there certainly wouldn't be any Velveeta-stuffed beef jerky in the butter compartment.

With a thrill of anticipation, Frank approached the gleaming white appliance and swung open the door. He looked inside expectantly, and was met by: one lone pimento-stuffed green olive. Its red eye gazed forlornly at Frank as it floated in a small jar, which was the only object in Monica's refrigerator. The shelves were bare, sterile, devoid of any kind of nourishment.

Frank's heart sank. In all of his covert explorations, he had never encountered such a dreary display. This could not bode well for the future. Why did she keep that one jar in there, its one green olive calling attention to the harsh vacancy around it? Frank didn't know, but he didn’t' trust women who kept half-empty containers. He believed that a jar should always be full of the promise of potential satisfaction.

Shocked, disappointed and hungry, Frank shut the door and retreated from the kitchen. When Monica finished her phone call, he told her that he felt ill and needed to go home. He realized this was a stupid excuse, as he'd been full of vigor all night, but Monica seemed to accept his explanation. Relieved, he made his exit.

Frank spent the rest of the day watching reruns of Cooking With Claudine, the TV show featuring Jacques Pepin's slender blonde daughter. Claudine was an amateur, and Frank found it very erotic to watch her learn to cook. He became so engrossed in the show that he almost forgot to meet Jack at the bar, arriving a half-hour late.

"What took you so long?" complained Jack. "Were you at Monica's?"
"No, I was watching Claudine," Frank replied.

"Claudine? Oh no," said Jack. "That's a bad sign. So – what color were Monica's panties?"

"I don't know, Jack. But her fridge was totally empty except for one jar of olives."

"And what color were the olives?"

"Green."

Jack puzzled over the color green, but its significance escaped him.

"Well, Frank," he offered, "maybe it's not such a bad thing. Yesterday I went to this girl's place, and when I looked in her underwear drawer, it was empty! Turns out the girl doesn't even own a pair, and she's much wilder than all the ones who have worn red panties."

Jack paused to request another beer and some change for a five-dollar bill. "So," he continued, "she blew my system right out of the water. Couldn't you be wrong about the refrigerator thing too?"

Frank pondered this dilemma while the bartender set down Jack's glass. "But I've been right every time," he mused.

"Excuse me," said the bartender. "I don’t mean to butt in, but your friend is right."

Frank looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is, you guys have been coming into this bar for as long as I've been working here, and all you talk about is fridges and panties. And let's face it, neither one of you seems to be having much luck with women."

"Hey!" Jack interjected.

"No, let him finish," said Frank, intrigued.

"Thank you," said the bartender. "The point is that you two seem really afraid to get to know women. And let me tell you, there are much better ways to do so than analyzing their underwear or groceries." The bartender handed Jack his five singles and moved to the other end of the counter. "It's really the kind of beer they drink," he muttered to himself.

Fortunately, Frank didn't hear this last bit of advice.

"Well, pal," said Jack, "it's something for you to think about. Listen, I've got to run."

"Hot date?"

"You guessed it."

"With who?" Frank wondered.

"With the girl who wears no panties." Jack grinned, left a tip, and practically skipped out of the bar.

Dejected, Frank drained the rest of his beer and considered the bartender's advice. It was true that his luck with women was less than spectacular. All of his relationships had been short-lived and had ended on a sour note. But hadn't he developed the refrigerator system to avoid repeating the same mistakes? On the other hand, could it be that the very method he'd been employing was actually responsible for his high failure rate? Jack was the only guy Frank knew who had worse luck with women; tonight, he was out for an encore performance with some hot number while Frank drank alone at the bar.

He decided to go home. Upon walking into his apartment, he heard voices, then realized that he'd just left the TV on. It was nine-thirty; Jack and his date would have finished dinner by now. Frank wondered if there would be any leftovers. Sighing, he went into the kitchen for some Doritos and noticed that the red light was flashing on his answering machine. One message.

He pushed the "play" button, and heard Monica's concerned voice asking him if he was feeling better. Frank took a deep breath and picked up the phone.