Ambre Eau de Parfum by Molinard

If I had to describe it, it has two sweet yet slightly dark sides, among the most elegant I’ve tried. At first, the ‘propolis’ (as my partner says), with the mellowness of geranium and benzoin, marks the beginning. The lavender is very subtle and smells more coniferous, creating a curious sweet tree that reminds me of The Hour of the Malachite or the Holly Ring from Cultist Simulator, that deity of vegetal fertility and succulence. Then, as it dries, the clove takes the spotlight. With the sweetness lowered and the orange, it smells like a cake; it’s on the edge of being edible because the incense balances it well. It’s syrupy, like a cinnamon roll where the cinnamon is clove, but without that artificial greasy flavor. I think everyone needs a little sweet, even those who aren’t. For us, Ambre de Molinard fits perfectly.

I’d never dare look her in the eyes; the infatuation is total. My parents and I just moved into this building a few days ago. She lives in Penthouse B, I in Second Floor A, and at fifteen, this had never happened to me. From the street, I see her terrace with exuberant, lush, mysterious, and impregnable plants, just like her. The first contact was by the scent she left in the elevator. Leaving home on the first day of school, with my spirits on the floor due to new teachers and classmates, a mix of fear and anxiety clouded my mind. Suddenly, as the door opened, a breeze of celestial scent kissed my face and made me tremble from head to toe. Since then, I’ve been in love, without knowing who carries it or if it’s real. I went up and down several times without being able to stop inhaling that scent that subdued me. At first, it reminded me of my grandparents’ house in Valencia, with bergamot, oranges, lemon trees, and lavender; my bright, free summers, far from the concrete of Madrid. After that citrus splendor came an enveloping embrace of amber, incense, cloves, patchouli, and vanilla that set my blood on fire, made my stomach convulse, and almost gave me a dizzy spell. I had to drop my backpack and lean against the wall not to fall. Sweat on the forehead, lack of air, chills. I longed for her and feared seeing her, wanted to talk to her but didn’t know what to say. Her scent was like the cinema screen when Gilda took off her black glove and threw it in my face, as if that slap made me abandon a long childhood and wake up to a constrained adolescence. I arrived late and dazed, with a bad look in front of teachers and classmates who called me a freak, but at least I knew her name. At the entrance, on the mailbox for Apartment B, I read: AMBRE DE MOLINARD.