GITJ Post 313: The Tale of Queen Angie, p7

Her boobs are growing, and all her little friends? she seethed to herself as she marched down the sidewalk, headed to the shop she’d found online. She’s taller, she’s a fucking She-Hulk at the gym, she’s got some sort of weird-ass hypnotic perfume? she continued to rant, silently to herself, Fine. Two can play at that game.

Angie Wade was not accustomed to shopping in this part of town, the swankiest. But despite being a bit out of her element she held her head up high, strode confidently, some would say haughtily. She’d needed to make an appointment, in fact, to be let into this place she was headed to - ‘Merz Parfumerie’ - which was annoying but whatever. She’d be on time; she’d skipped out of the office an hour early to make sure.

She could feel her boobs jiggling in her too-small bra under her thin, faux-cashmere sweater as she walked. All the extra calories, along with the fenugreek, were starting to do some good, and maybe while she was downtown she’d look into a lingerie store. She’d finally gone up a cup size or two, she figured. Those fifteen pounds had to go somewhere besides my thighs. It was chilly, this early November afternoon, and her nipples were sensitive.

It annoyed her that she even had to be doing this. She’d tried to use AJ, her ex- and apparently some construction-monkey crew leader working on the office expansion, to get her what she wanted. She knew that there’d been adjustments made to the air circulation system in the building, that there was some sort of aromatherapy shit going on, something based on Melissa’s perfume. She knew it had something to do with how the other girls were growing, how spellbound the stupid doctor was by Melissa and her fucking jigglebunnies. Why was it not having any effect on her?!? Why couldn’t she tell him what to do and boss him around like everyone else was doing?!? It was fucking frustrating but she wasn’t about to sit back and just watch, let all these other girls become whatever they were becoming, especially after the elections let the whole fucking world know that there’d be new bosses in town pretty soon - all of them in smart skirts and high heels. She should be the one running that place, not that overgrown bimbo. So, she’d asked AJ to get some of the pure stuff, whatever it was that they were infusing the air filters in the office with, some weird super-strong chemical that smelled like Melissa’s perfume (so fucking weird, right?)…but he proved to be useless. He can’t even do that for me.

Finally at her destination - she’d had to park a few blocks away, where parking was cheaper - she looked in through the dusky storefront windows of this high-end perfume shop. She squinted, trying to see inside, what she’d be dealing with, but couldn’t make much out. She rang the stupid doorbell and waited.

A moment later a man answered the door - she was hoping for that. Angie tended to have better luck getting her way with guys than women. But by the way this guy wore that scarf around his neck she wasn’t too sure her normal methods of persuasion were going to be of much help here. Fine, money talks too. The company credit card that she’d been using over these past few weeks, and then surreptitiously hiding transactions for, was in her purse. Working in accounting was helpful.

“You must be our four o’clock customer. Welcome to Merz Parfumerie,” the thin man with the squirrely little moustache said as he stepped aside, ushered Angie into the dark little shop. He looked her up and down, took note of her cheap shoes and heavy behind as she glanced around, perused, browsing the shelves of exotic perfumes collected from around the world. “Is there anything in particular I can interest you in?”

Angie turned towards him; he’d found his way behind the glass sales counter. She stepped up to him and placed her purse on it. “Yes, thanks. I’ve heard that you can make custom perfumes, is that right?”

“Yes, yes we can,” the man smiled, “a personalized fragrance can be tailored just for you. We have a perfumologist from Grasse, perfume capital of France, who can craft whatever scent you’d like, for any occasion. It’s a wonderful idea. Would it be for you, or is this a gift?”

Perfumologist? Angie scoffed, silently, That’s a thing? “It would be for me, for sure,” she answered, “and I have a particular thing I want...”

At that, Angie unsnapped her purse and - pulling out some gum wrappers and her lipstick, putting a tampon on the counter - removed the three N-95 masks she’d squirreled away, snagged from the exam room earlier this morning. Damn, her whole purse was going to smell like Melissa, now.

The sales guy watched with cocked brow as she presented the masks to him, placed them on the countertop. His trained nose immediately picked up the scent of them. It was strong.

“These masks have been, like, soaked in some chemical, some perfume,” Angie began, “I want you to try to duplicate it, but make it…more like me. I want it even more intense.”

As Angie talked the man, with delicate, tentative fingers, lifted one mask from the three and passed it in an arc below his nose. It was not like anything he’d ever smelled before. Feminine, organic, beautiful in its own way. But it wasn’t a perfume, that he could tell.

“I want to wear it,” Angie continued, “I want to smell powerful. I want people to smell my strength, I want them to gag on it.” She watched the man take another breath of the alluring scent from the surgical mask, considering. “Can you do that for me?”

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