She saw it as an oily lavender smoke, the scent which crept up into her nostrils like the damp stench of an open wound.
She cracked her eyes momentarily hoping to discern who on the elevator was attempting to disguise their own stench with a floral surrogate.
The old lady with sunken cheeks? Her look suggested a flowery grave. The bicycle courier? Had he mistakenly used his wife’s deodorant spray?
By the fourteenth floor, she could no longer stand the noxious, enveloping cloud. When the doors slid open, she fled as if for her life. After climbing six flights of stairs to her office, she sat down with the ghastly truth—
The offending scent was her new laundry detergent.