To this day I can't stand the smell of Chantilly perfume. She word it all the time, day and night, so thick, the cloud of it had the effect of a chemical attack. You could tell when she was in the building and how close she was to your room, the smell growing more intense, despite burning incense and towels stuffed along the bottom of the door. The hall before her room stank of it, as if leading to the entrance of some perverted garden. Very few people could breathe long enough to look in on her, let alone enter, though the smell might have been part of her defenses. She didn't like people bothering her; yet she didn't always like to be alone. Sometimes I could hear her through the thin wall that separated our room, pacing like a caged animal. Occasionally, I'd hear romantic music mumbling, too, and imagined her teary-eyed over the record player, mouthing out the lyrics from memory. She arrived at the Montclair house during my seco...
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