A virgin Apple-tini served at a debutante cotillion.

A twist of lemon peel, green Jolly Rancher syrup, some cream soda.
And the breath of what I want to think is apple blossom, but is probably some kind of synthetic lily. (It works, though, like that bit of spandex in the silk knit shirt that would be shapeless without it.)
Sweet white musk on the bottom, the way the paper smells after you’ve poured all the sugar out of the one three pound bag.