Butterfly

Dr. Reigan walks down the corridor that smells of antiseptics. The odour of death. He prefers it more to the bottles of scents Alice lined up this morning on the breakfast table. ‚We are taking this into production. I need your opinion,‛ she said pushing the unscrewed flasks over in front of his rice porridge. Little spheres of white porcelain. Curved zeros, lonely. Alice pushed them one by one with her long fingers, trimmed, deep scarlet nail polish. ‚What was the name of this one again?‛ he asked while taking a guarded sniff from the bottled fragrance concocted by his wife. ‚La mémoire,‛ the scent composer answered in dreamy tones. ‚Shush!‛ she added quickly in thrilled undertone, her cheeks rosy. She looked like a doll. ‚Perfume is like happiness. As soon as you try to explain the magic it’s gone,‛ said the doll with beautiful long fingers and scarlet nail polish.