Hanae Mori Magical Moon

Two girls are dancing by a bonfire under a full moon to the jingle of tambourines and the light smacking of drums. The taller girl has a bright young smell, litchee as sharp as a newly-minted penny and sweet coconut milk. As her long skirt swishes around her calves, she gazes longingly at her more experienced friend, a voluptuous hippie in a wench costume men will be dreaming about tonight, swaying slowly back and forth in a cloud of patchouli and sandalwood. If only men looked at her like that.

Just as she is getting tired of it, someone taps her on the shoulder. She turns around to behold a long-haired, gangly youth in a doublet. He kneels and offers her a rose. "For the mistress of my heart." She takes the rose, but she's glad she can't see him too well in the firelight - he's probably just that guy from the dorm who plays World of Warcraft all day long.

She lies in her sleeping bag that night, peering into the dark blue vial of oil she borrowed from her friend. It's dank and dirty but a hint of soapy white musk lies at the bottom like a jovial wink. The fire has died and a sweet smell of burning leaves is curling up toward the moon. She can just barely smell the rose wilting where she dropped it outside the tent. Sigh. No matter what she does or who she sleeps with, she is always going to have that little milky white heart that smells like innocence, for better or for worse.

She rolls over and goes to sleep with vanilla on her mind.