What on Earth Do you Mean?

I have the luxury of not falling in love eyes first.

I follow my nose instead and quickly. It is easier without the cane. The cane is not for me. The cane is nothing but a billboard for the sighted. Tonight I shuffle between a confluence of bodies, swaying to the rudiments of a quartet that fills the room. I hand my drink to the waiter and with the focus of a bloodhound, side-step what smelled like the entree table of salads and meats. Following the notes of cedarwood, lime maybe and the faint click of heels that could only be the grace of a Manolo Blahnik.

I almost lose her in the loudness of overfed grunts arguing over Trammels- What on earth do you mean by Trammels? I think about the scarf that must be draped across her clavicles. Hers would be the 16th I’ve collected so far.

Keeping in mind the things I must prepare to preserve this fragrance for as long as possible- I followed soundlessly.

That’s all she would hear.