This dude lives in a cedar log cabin with a wood burning stove and scary dead animals, fresh enough that they still smell like fur and musk, on the wall. He’s unforgettable, and orris-root-sweet when you get to know him, but way too alpha-male for me.
Tipsy strawberries and seawater, roses and a tangled forest. Projects like spilled wine and soaks clothes for weeks.
Several years ago I wrote a novella set on Öland, an island off the coast of Sweden. My two young lovers celebrate midsummer eating strawberries and getting drunk, and if the pages could be scented, they’d smell like Sådanne.
Salty sand and boozy sweet fruit, so sun-ripe it’s alcoholic, eaten in the shadows of the sea-wind twisted trees on the shore. I adore it.
Coffee with vanilla syrup and booze-cherry tobacco in a cedar wood humidor.
Italian plums, the kind they dry for prunes, and wormwood dust underneath.
Another scent I’d find cloying on a man but delicious on a butch woman.