This past Saturday, while out negotiating the price of my favorite organic persimmons (I like to pay more, and for some reason, this confuses the fruit stand cashier), I stopped inside a new candle boutique because the font of their signage was particularly tasteful. What happened next can only be described as an out-of-body experience: I picked up a candle at random and it was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before. Plus, it was adequately priced at $140.
Its casing was simple yet chic, its aroma like a citrus grove bathed in vanilla that’s also been ceremoniously blessed by a pilates cult. I spent 20 minutes standing in the middle of the store, meditating over its oils and smooth wax until I realized I was late for my butt liftologist appointment and there were already two people in line. I hate waiting—it’s why I don’t vote—so I set it down and promised the candle gods I would return after my bum had been sufficiently elevated for the day. But when I returned at 5 P.M., the quaint shoppe had closed for the eve. In my state of ecstasy, I had failed to see the sign that read “one-day pop-up.”
The candle shoppe and I were never to cross paths again, and every day since has been a torturous hell. All I can do is chronicle what are sure to be my final days, because I can no longer live in a world that I know could smell so much better.
Sunday
I sleep in. My husband asks if I am not well and brings me a chamomile tea and paleo pancakes. I flush them down the toilet once he leaves and rearrange the library of great American authors in order of sadness, as both my stomach and my soul are eternally empty. I only know the hunger of the nose.
My children don’t notice I am sad because they are away at the stables all day watching the servants break their mares in for them. Perhaps I should adopt them off, for I have only let them down.
Monday
I was able to gather myself this morning for butt liftology, but chose a different location so that I wouldn’t have to pass the former candle pop up. The man I’m having an affair with couldn’t even get me off more than twice. I forgot the children at school and they stayed there overnight. I will try harder to put the pieces of my life back together tomorrow.
Tuesday
I decided to put my husband in charge of the children this week because I forget that when I am sad I often lament about the times I didn’t have children and continue to leave them places. The last time was at a Nordstrom. A Nordstrom! How gauche. I regain composure enough to remind myself that perhaps I can find the fragrance online, but the candle proves impossible to Google.
Wednesday
I pen my suicide note and leave it under my husband’s pillow after my morning kefir enema. Don’t worry, I’m not really going to kill myself. I just need him off my scent as I begin my journey to India to become a master candlemaker and dedicate the rest of my life to recreating that special, luxurious scent. I’ll work until it kills me, and be remembered postmortem for my dedication to the craft.
Thursday
Dammit, the husband tracked me down. I accidentally signed my suicide note with henna and he pieced it together. He also found out about my lover. Now I’m getting a divorce and still don’t have that candle.
Spiraling, I decide to give meth a try. I don’t know where to find it, so I look in a trash can. Low and behold, in the dumpster behind my least fancy neighbor’s house, was THE CANDLE. Its glassware was broken (they clearly don’t know how to care for nice things), but it was there nonetheless.
In my state of ecstasy I promptly ate it. That’s right. I ate the candle. Now we are one, forever and always. Or at least until my next kefir enema, which isn’t until Tuesday.
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