between what is sacred and what just smells good

Seneca didn’t question whether the employee, Mateo according to his nametag, had in fact made any of the perfumes. She had been obnoxious enough to just take his word for it. Her lips pinched into a tight line as he began to list the names of his fragrances. Rusty Spoon alone was enough to make it incredibly difficult not to grin or laugh at the names. Somehow, she managed to keep it together through each name, the most offensive of which was probably The Popsicle Pencil, before she asked, “I’m sorry, sir, but with names like that I’m really struggling to tell if you’re being serious or if I might have just suffered a stroke.” She raised her brows. “I mean, do you just open a dictionary and pick a word or two and say–yep, that’s good enough for me–and smack it on a label?”

Her smug air fell away quickly as he subconsciously checked to see if his cufflinks were still there. Her mouth dropped open with insult at the insinuation. “Do you really think I’m going to try and take your stupid cufflinks? I wanted free samples, my dude. What, like I came here to rob you of them cuz I just couldn’t live without them? What would I even wear a cufflink with? And I’m not about to steal ‘em and pawn ‘em after what happened to the Golden State Killer.”

§§§

Mateo didn’t understand her willingness to just say things, and he had to fight his own shock at being called dude and asked such flagrantly disrespectful questions, one right after the other. This was probably the thief’s modus operandi- overwhelm, shock, and nab. He shouldn’t-couldn’t-wouldn’t give in, even in the face of such a pride-threatening accusation.

“I picked them based on energy and inspiration. There’s nothing haphazard about my naming process. Just because they’re a little more out-there than Bath and Body Works doesn’t mean that they’re ridiculous... as for this serial killer talk...” he bristled. He didn’t know anything about the Golden State Killer, or what he had to do with cufflinks, but thoroughness was one of his few true weapons against this reputation onslaught.

“If you consider the slightest look an accusation that you share something with a serial killer, then that is not something to blame me for. That is something you you should unpack on your own... your hyper-vigilance is not something that my cufflinks need to be exposed to.”

Now, Theodore had stopped completely, and in his periphery he was aware of the other annoyed stragglers who seemed to expect him to open the door. With great deliberation he ignored them, instead focusing on the gentleman who appeared on further inspection to be dressed as some sort of… Sex rat. That didn’t seem like a flattering title for it, especially considering how strangely good he looked in it, and so Theodore decided he wouldn’t be the one to bring it up first.

“Theodore Reynolds, of Reynolds Tech,” he replied, joining his hand with Mateo’s for a healthy shake. He hadn’t introduced himself that way outside of a meeting in a while, which left him with a curious smile - and a few strangers, still glowering at him. “Well, just go first, if it bothers you so much!” he snipped, watching with annoyance as they took his offer in stride.

“Honestly, some people…” he rolled his eyes, turning back to Mateo. “Fascinating. Is it something you sell there, at Bottled Heaven? Or perhaps, something you prefer to keep for yourself?” he asked, to distract himself from the screams he could now hear from further along the path.

§§§

Mateo shook the hand with a firm, confident grip, only for his confidence to fade into curiosity as he watched Theodore Reynolds snap at the people passing by. He observed that little moment with a slightly furrowed brow and quiet interest, an interest that only compounded when Theo seemed to bounce back nearly immediately.

“It is something I sell,” he said, his voice careful lest he be accused of using a haunted house as his soapbox. “The scent is called Charger Cord,” he explained, before his attention was drawn by a shriek from the haunted house, a sound that he met with an eye roll.

“No way is it that scary,” he muttered.

— setting:style loft - weekend, mid-afternoon — availability: closed | mateo de la vega ( @mateodelavega​)

Since one of her co-workers had mentioned this place to be it for fashion lovers, Victoria threw her prejudice aside and decided to give it a try. If she kept comparing Islesbury to the big, crowded cities she’d lived and visited before, she would never make a home in here. That wasn’t ideal. Plus, she was too practical not to manage to adjust in here and make things harder on herself or Hyun Jin.

Her eyes wandered over nice, casual buttoned shirts that would actually look lovely over her dress pants or pencil skirts, so she picked a few in different colors to try them on. Moving to the male section, Victoria thought of getting Hyun Jin a little gift, too, because—why the hell, not? She was already there. It was when her eyes caught sight of someone torn between two ties and, for the life of her, could not keep it to herself.

“The darker shade will compliment your skin much better.” Victoria shared, offering them a smile. “Oh? I know you, don’t I? Have we met?”

§§§

The process of picking a tie, when you were a businessman who’s job was very entrenched in fashion and looking trendy, was a life or death situation- or at least Mateo was willing to treat it like one. Such was the life of someone who cared a little too much about everything, right?

At the sound of an outside interjector, Mateo’s gaze on the mirror shifted, moving from the ties to the person behind him on the mirror, a woman who carried a sense of confidence that only denoted culture and money to Mateo. He opted to tread carefully, squinting a little at the mirror.

“Are you sure it’s not too sharp of a contrast?” he asked, before turning around, bringing his hand out for a businessman’s handshake. “I’m Mateo de la Vega, if you know me, it’s from my work at Bottled Heaven. Perfume specialist.”

Bex knew the creative process all too well. She was used to scrawling upon whatever surface she had available, be it a napkin when she attempted to stave off writer’s block in a restaurant, or an old & wrinkled receipt she fished out from the bottom of her purse. She tried to carry a notebook, but it always ended up extracted and left in her office as she tried to decipher her own scribbles. “I can’t even keep track, but it’s nice to know we’ve got options.” The balance was not overloading it with too many options. Her own head spun with the different scents they had volleyed back and forth, and Bex absentmindedly raised a small, glass container of coffee beans to her nose. She inhaled, but nodded as Mateo spoke. “My schedule is wide open. Even if it’s not, I can rearrange it to accommodate. What’s a good time for you??”

/// 𝒻𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹

An on-site visit to a mysterious hotel was never going to be a normal morning for Mateo, not when he was so used to his workspace at the shop. It wasn’t an unwelcome change, however- the ambiance here was appropriately vintage and artistic to give him some inspiration immediately upon entrance.

“What stage of renovation is the lobby in?” he asked, surveying the space with a keen eye. “Am I looking at a finished product, or just the bones of one?”

Seneca nodded, a brow lifting to suggest her piqued interest. Maybe it was her favorite one. Even if it wasn’t, she was interested to learn which it would be. Maybe she could use this as an opportunity to butter the man up and convince him she was worth of a few more sample vials even if that meant breaking or bending the rules. ”Yeah, which ones?” she encouraged, though she forced her face to take on a blanched expression, “Unless they don’t let you make perfume?”

“I’m sure it’s all true,” Seneca said with a very tongue-in-cheek slow nod. She seemed impressed when he went after name brand cuff links. The blonde was clearly entertained and grinned. “You know you don’t sound any less pretentious, right?” she questioned. “And you didn’t defend yourself about the pocket squares. You totally spend hours and hours ironing your pocket squares. Only the finest of bespoke cufflinks for these finely pressed pocket squares, peasants!” 

§§§

“I make many of the perfumes here.” He paused, debating on whether or not he should start listing titles, before simultaneously abandoning and embracing his pride to launch into it. “Dusty Spoon is one of my more popular ones. Olive Shadow is also a big deal. Charger Cord is one of my newer ones, but it’s a bit more avant-garde. Witches Brew. Chair. The Popsicle Pencil. Lamp Trails. Broom Room. The Candlephone. Tile.”

The haunted house was, in retrospect, a bad idea. Theodore’s resting heart-rate was pretty high to begin with, given he was yet to find a thing on earth that didn’t cause him some mild level of stress, and adding the spooks of the Halloween carnival to that was just a recipe for some dramatic cardiac disaster. Heading down the corridor, he felt a particularly tense sense of unease - there was one door ahead, and he was quite convinced there’d be a live actor or something of the sort on the other side waiting to, quite frankly, make him shit himself.

If he was alone in there, it’d be significantly easier, but no - there were other people behind him, a small cluster, waiting with him inadvertently leading the charge. He needed a distraction, something, anything, just a few seconds extra to breathe… that was when he noticed it. Theodore sniffed the air once, then again, slowly turning with a quizzical look on his face. “Excuse me,” he began, his voice hushed to avoid disrupting the atmosphere any more than he currently was in his attempt at stalling. “What is that you’re wearing? The scent, I mean. It’s fantastic.”

§§§

The last time a man asked Mateo what he was wearing, it was a saucy phone call that ended too soon as a result of his apparently stilted dirty talk. This fact was mentally dismissed with a huff as Mateo turned, looking over and registering the man who has asked the very pertinent, very flattering question. He was immediately charmed, as the acknowledgment of his hard work was the quickest way to his heart.

“An original,” he said, his whole body turning to dace this man. He clocked a few things near-immediately. Gay. Nervous. Wealthy. Deeply insecure. He took a breath in through his nose, gathering the next few steps- daddy issues. Nice college. A little bit of a sellout. This would be fun, he thought, an assured smile coming to his face.

“I make colognes and perfumes, this one is just something I whipped up.” he delicately extended his hand for a handshake. “Mateo de la Vega, of Bottled Heaven fame. And you...?”

“Well, what about later when you’re not mad at me?” she asked for the sheer sake of stirring the pot. She was a little surprised he was still bothering with her considering she had put the extra samples back at his direction. He and his pocket square seemed the type to be above her antics–having been involved in such a snob sport as skating she definitely knew his type. Back then she actually cared about being on their good sides since they had a say in her athletic career. The most this man held over her head was how many consecutive days she could smell good for without having to drop a buck. 

“Okay, perfume savant. If it’s such an art, which one did you make here? I’ll let you know if it’s good or bad.” Seneca chose not to mention that the scale to which his scent would be measured was whether or not it was what she’d stolen the most samples of over time. 

“Larceny is super fun, you should try it some time,” she told him, being flip. She craned her neck and raised an eyebrow. “Besides, it’s not larceny if it’s from a store. Eat the rich, coward.” She doubted he’d appreciate her social commentary, so instead she asked, “So when what do you do for fun? Iron your pocket squares and alphabetize your cuff links by name brand?” She was mocking his overall aesthetic and gravitas which she assumed she had down to T, but she did hold some genuine curiosity. Getting on his good side might also secure her his willingness to turn a blind eye in the future–though usually she spoiled her chances of getting on anyone’s good side by running her mouth. 

§§§

Mateo did consider himself a little bit of a savant, but having the word thrown at him like that just served to rile him up a bit more. “Which one?” he asked, looking over to the samples bowl. The mix of fragrances in the bowl served to make him flounder a little, not sure exactly where to begin. 

In hopes of picking up from his own stalling, he decided to fling a comeback of his own. “For fun? I have a very active, legal social life.” This was something of a lie, since most of his nights the past week had been spent watching Real Housewives and eating gourmet popcorn, but this scoundrel didn’t need to know that tidbit. “Also? Name brand cufflinks are a joke. They’re a novelty item. I buy mine from a local artisan, who’s very aware of the restrictions that my fabric choices incur.”

If there’s anything Mateo learned from college, it was that Halloween was the one night of the year where he could wear anything, and nobody would say shit. Or if they did say shit, he could just claim the halloween spirit possessed him. Some used this excuse to go opulent, others convenient, but Mateo? He followed the Mean Girls adage of using it to wear the most ostentatious of lingerie outside. In honor of Mean Girls, he picked his costume:

A Sexy Mouse.

It was a shame that none of the Halloween stores offeres sexy mice costumes for men, but he wasn’t above a little bit of gender bending with his outfits, especially when it was halloween.

(below the cut is my somewhat scary photoshop of mateo in his costume)

Seneca watched Mateo’s expression as he searched his memory for who she had just called him. As his offense to the comment became apparent, a smile widened on her face something akin to a foxlike grin. “Well, no. The movie makes it very clear that he trains with the New Jersey State Police but he only ever passes the written exam, duh. You forgot, huh? Wanna come over and watch it?” she asked, her fake enthusiasm coming off somewhat convincing. Her pesky smile faded and she shook her head. “Um. No? But I also don’t think anybody has a degree in perfume science cuz that sounds super made up.”

She turned her head and watched him place the vials back in the bowl, her shoulders visibly sagging. “You’re no fun,” she told him. She wondered if he would argue with her opinion of him.

§§§

“Perhaps you need to swing by sometime, and see the space? I’d make it worth your while with a good bottle of wine.” It was merely a suggestion, something more concrete than the random snippets of inspiration Bex had to offer. “Nothing too powdery,” she agreed readily. “Just sumptuous mystery. Dark, sultry, romantic.” She ran a hand through her hair, shuffling through their scent catalogue in her mind. The thought of anything overly artificial made her nauseous. “Perhaps a bit of amber, or the slightest edge of musk to go with the vanilla? Still warm, but it might cut some of that sweetness?”

§§§

“That’s good... here’s give me a second.” He put his things down, before hurrying to the register counter, where he kept a notepad and a pencil for his random bursts of fragrance inspiration. He bustled back, full mom-walk in effect, and began drawing a graph, one with enough shorthand and notation that made it unreadable to everyone else, but made sense to Mateo and Mateo alone. “I fear overloading the scent with complexity,” he admitted, looking down at his scribbles, then up at Bex. “It needs focus. It’s as my professor used to say- if you put all the colors in a pot, you’ll just get brown... I do need to see the space,” he decided out loud. “When are you available for a tour?”

⭒⁎

Bex didn’t particularly care for the roses in the bouquet – it was both cliché and antiquated, yet it was almost the singular antiquity that Bex didn’t want to welcome into the victorian’s restoration. She was fond of the tiny sprigs of jasmine dotted throughout. 

She perked up at the mention of the table, and craned her neck to peer upon the photo once more. Bex recognized some of the ornate carving from what she could make out. “I believe it is still hidden away in the attic, though I don’t know the type of wood it is,” she offered honestly. “I give you complete creative freedom with that.” The mention of cedar had her brighten even more. “There is a humidor - spanish cedar, I believe - that could be an interesting point of inspiration?” The warmth of the wood, and the faintest lingering scent of the tobacco it had once held, could potentially provide the correct depth to balance the more effeminate florals. “What about something like that?”

§§§

“You’re probably not making as strong a point as you think you are, ‘cause I’m pretty sure Marina Abramovic has probably made a painting with the intention of destroying it as performance art,” Seneca pointed out, seemingly amused rather than set right by his yelling. “And I mean, the physical comedy of a person running through a painting in a movie? Chef’s kiss!”

The snarky looked on her face faded as he referred to himself as a college educated man. A hand lifted to the base of her neck in a pear-clutching fashion. “A college-educated man?” she breathed dramatically. “Well, I never. You really should have led with that.” She shook her head gently as she spoke. A moment later she sighed heavily and dropped a few of the vials of samples into his hand as she pouted. “Fine. Fine, you win, Paul Blart. Man, you college-educated men are no fun.” 

§§§

“Is that another artist?” he asked, squinting. It was only when he thought hard about why that name was familiar that his eyebrows raised, his face showing the full degree of offense. “I am not a mall cop... just because I don’t look at performance artists, which might as well just be bullshit artists, as far as I’m concerned... that doesn’t make me Paul Blart. Do you think that Paul Blart has a degree in perfume science?” 

He took the vials, and delicately began placing them, one by one, into the bowl. “And on that note... I’m not a fan of physical comedy, so your point isn’t as good as you think it is,” he said, as if it were the burn of the century.

“Ok, perfect,” Bex gave a quick nod. “Well hopefully this fulfills all of that, then,” She offered, brightening. She cradled the bouquet in her arm as she handed Mateo the photo. Bex took a final peek at the image over Mateo’s shoulder before adjusting the blooms to match.

“It’s as close of a recreation that Happy Stems could accommodate on such short notice.” Most of the blooms were a match – though some were fillers for the sake of impact and drama. “There’s also the language of the flowers, and what they might mean – like this dahlia apparently means ‘good taste’. I can’t say that I disagree.”

§§§

Mateo peered at the picture, connecting the flowers to the scent library in his head. It was a shame that dahlias were, on the whole, scent-less, otherwise it would be the perfect anchor to the hotel’s signature. Then, a slight detail caught his eye.

“This table... do you still have it in your possession?” he tapped on it, then looked back to Bex, his eyes taking on the familiar gleam of curiosity. “A woody edge could be a good grounding point... at the end of the day, I think the balance between flowery and woody would be a tightrope walk of a line, but it could really pull it into an air of refinement. That being said, if this table is scrap wood, that might not work... pauper’s wood is anathema to good scents. If it’s cashmere wood, however? Or even cedar? Then we’re talking.”

Seneca had popped into one of her favorite stores in town–Bottled Heaven. Half of the appeal to her was the absolute unhinged, unnecessary opulence of its product. The other half was that, frankly, it just smelled nice. At work, no matter how well she painted her face or how meticulously stoned a costume was, she never felt fully ready without a spritz or two of some sort of sweet fragrance. The only problem was that she liked options. And options were expensive. 

The woman’s shoulders tensed slightly as she heard a stern voice from behind her. She turned around to face what she felt was an unnecessarily angry face making headway across the showroom toward her. Rather than looking chastised or regretful of her actions, she simply grinned shamelessly. “Weren’t rules meant to be broken though?” she questioned him, “Even the unofficial, unspoken ones?” She doubted her reasoning would change the man’s mind, 

“I only have five-c’mon. One is for… my mom,” she lied–an obvious and poorly delivered lie. She could tell he wasn’t amused with her, but she thought it was funny. Realizing he didn’t seem to be amused with her, she glanced off to the other side of the shop before exclaiming, “Look over there!” in an attempt to distract Mateo. 

§§§

His eyebrows were knitted together. “What? Rules weren’t made to be broken... that’s the opposite... do you make a painting with the intention of breaking it? No! And anyway...” he stayed steadfast, refusing to let his gaze stray from the woman. “I am a college-educated man. I will not fall for the ‘look over there’ trick... I invented the ‘look over there’ trick when I was your age!”

(Mateo was never good at identifying ages. It was never something he was really able to do.)

He held his hand out, palm up. “Three samples stay in your purse. The rest either go in my hand or in the bowl.”

He marched over there, nostrils flared with barely contained upset. “We here at Bottled Heaven don’t have a hard and fast rule on samples, but that, ma’am, is too many. Put them back, and pick three. Max.” He kept his voice strong and authoritative, trying to maintain a handle over the law and order of this store. 

“I’ve got to stop dropping by like this, don’t I?” Bex asked sheepishly, already knowing the answer. She had a penchant for putting off more important projects, but trying to see her passion projects through immediately. “I can come back another time,” she offered, not wanting to impose or distract. 

“They’re for you.” In a way, at least. The previous signature blend attempt had been so close - closer than anything else she had found in her own endeavors of searching. There was a thought process to Bex’s impulses, even if it didn’t often show outwardly. She held out the photo to start her explanation, “I found this the other the day.” It was an interior shot of the house’s early days, and the bouquet loomed in the background. “If we’re looking for a signature scent, recreating a bouquet once displayed within its walls isn’t the worst inspiration, is it?” Even just the faintest note of dark florals just might be the answer. 

§§§

“On the contrary!” Mateo put down the bottle in his hand with his own sort of emphatic grace, taking long strides to meet Bex where she stood. “I love gifts. And inspiration. And the space in between those two things.” He reached for the photo, bringing it in to hold as he examined it.

“Are the flowers in this picture all the same as the one in your... hand?” He nodded towards the bouquet. He could immediately note one or two flowers in common between the two, but he wasn’t sure if Bex had gone through the process of reconstructing this historical arrangement.