Replica: Under the Lemon Tree
A short story series inspired by the Maison Margiela Replica Perfumes that are known for their unique concept of capturing moments and memories through fragrance. Each scent evokes specific places and times filled with love, drama, friendship, and pain.
First the Pinot Gris. Then a 180-degree turn to reach a bottle of sparkling water from the opposite shelf. Quickly he crosses two more aisles to pick up a few paper cups and finds himself at the checkout line. Actually, everything is the same as always, his very own routine. Due to the many times before it was now perfected. Even the cashier has the same uninterested look. Nevertheless, S. feels his inner restlessness. It makes him go over the purchase another 10 times to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Passion is the archenemy of routine.
For the last few hours, she has dominated his thoughts. What otherwise would be an ordinary picnic creates in S. the urge to run faster. Within no time, he finds himself in front of a heavy wooden door. Ringing, waiting … then the inviting buzz. On the way to be greeted — by her.
As soon as S. sets foot on the doorstep, he notices the slightly flowery scent which mixes with the soft music from the next room. A soft “Hey” greets him before with a light step he gets approached. At first, the outline of the summer dress only casually appears in his peripheral vision. But quickly her hands lay down on his shoulders and her mouth on his. As the kiss dissolves, they both look into each other’s eyes for a while. The touch of old excitement they carried within each other lit up. But this wasn’t all. It was accompanied by tension, and how it will discharge between the two of them is still open. Now they need to get out and find a good place just in time for sunset. After all, the purchase should not have been without reason.
Both step out of the door and find themselves on a busy street. Not at all the atmosphere which would be appropriate now. Three streets further on, however, it already looks different. Here it is quiet and it becomes increasingly greener. They walk past an aging iron gate which lets them peak into the already closed botanical garden. It is so quiet and there are no visitors who might disturb. S.’s interest is aroused! Still holding L.’s hand, he stops abruptly, turns her in so that their faces are only millimeters apart, and kisses her along her neck until he reaches her ear just to whisper: “Here!
The half-height brick wall on the side of the gate is no obstacle and is quickly overcome. As if there there is something to steal in a botanical garden? In the meantime, the sun is moving further and further towards the horizon — time is running. It is necessary to quickly find a suitable place to spread out the picnic blanket. Both agree that only a small hill in the middle of the park comes into question, as otherwise, the surrounding trees will hide the sunset. In good spirits, they walk up the lavender-planted stairs until they finally arrive at a tree that marks the top of the hill. “Ichang-Papeda (Citrus ichangensis)” is written on a small sign — a lemon tree.
L. immediately notices how much the sour-fruity citrus smell contrasts with the woody lavender that accompanied her up the stairs. As soon as they sit down, they unpack their souvenirs. The sun is now lightly touching the horizon. S. pulls out a pocket knife, cuts the cap of the wine bottle to expose the crown cork, and pulls it out. After the cups are filled, both smile mischievously at each other, lean against the tree, and enjoy the last few minutes of the rays before the sun finally disappears. The tension is visibly gone for both of them by now. L.’s head on S.’s shoulder, his hand on the inside of her thigh. It is precisely these moments that give both of them the necessary balance and security that are otherwise not always present in their everyday lives.
Meanwhile, the sky turned into a deep, almost purply red reminiscent of a beautiful royal velour from the Victorian era. S. hand, which is still lying on her thigh, begins to move slowly. He caresses L.’s soft skin. Spreads his fingers and pulls them together again. A shiver runs through her and he uses the moment to move several inches closer to her pelvis. With his index finger, he runs over her warm panties only lightly stroking them. A short tease. But then he abruptly stands up, brushes against L.’s arm, and turns to the tree. He pulls out his pocket knife and begins to carve first an “L” and then an “S” into the tree. Cracking the bark releases more of that pleasant citrus aroma. It intensely lies in the air and clearly dominates every other scent. Just before he finishes he can feel two arms wrap around his belly. Feels how his neck gets kissed and how goosebumps cover his skin. And the immediate reaction was so predictable, yet just what she wished for. He turns around and returns the kiss. With the knife still in his hand, enveloped by the scent of citrus, he runs it over L.’s open back. The cold blade on her skin only ensures that she buries her tongue way deeper into his mouth while tightening her grip on his body. Again and again, the piece of steel wanders up and down until they release the kiss. Then both look deeply into each other’s eyes. For the last time, S. places the blade at the junction between L.’s neck and shoulder, presses firmly onto it, and guides it to the lower back. L.’s eyes are wide open in horror. It is not a deep cut and not so much the pain that surprises her, but the unexpected sight of S.’s blood-covered hand appearing before her eyes. He continues to hold the knife firmly in his hand, only that there is nothing left of the original silver hue. The blade is almost completely covered with a thin dark red film. A single drop detaches from the tip of the blade and drips onto the picnic blanket. A stain forms, colored just like the sky.
Purely a fictional story! All Images are generated by Midjourney. It’s a great service so check it out.
