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I invited her to a temple

for our first date,

because I had a feeling

that every relationship

should begin

in a holy place.

While I was breathing in

the scent of incense

and fresh flowers,

she complained

that I had put on

too much perfume,

that it was unbearable

to sit close to me.

It made me laugh.

The excitement

had been too much.

I hadn’t realized

I had emptied

half the bottle

over myself.

I also felt bad

that she had to go through this

on our very first meeting.

I told her,

“I’m sorry.

Next time,

I’ll be more careful.”

Neither of us knew

whether

there would be

a next time.

I shouldn’t have

used so much

of a cheap perfume.

I didn’t know

the smell

would put her off.

We stood

before a stone deity,

covered with flowers,

vermilion,

sweets,

incense,

and little flames.

I bowed my head,

touched the feet.

She stood beside me,

hands folded,

eyes closed,

praying.

Only God knows

what she asked for.

I stole a glance

while her eyes

were still closed.

She looked

like the first sun

of the morning,

quietly

lighting up my heart.

When she opened her eyes,

she caught me looking.

She smiled.

Then she laughed,

watching other worshippers

sense the cloud of perfume

around me

and gently move away.

She said,

“I feel sorry for God.

He can’t move away.”

I couldn’t say a word.

I asked

if we could sit

on a bench.

We found one,

empty.

She sat

at one end.

I sat

at the other.

If someone

had sat between us,

we would have become

strangers again.

Silently,

I prayed

that God

would leave

that distance untouched.

Instead,

a saint

in an orange robe

sat between us,

lit hash,

and released

a thick cloud of smoke.

The smell

was unbearable

for both of us.

We decided

to leave

for coffee.

On the way,

she said

she was getting late

for college.

It was still morning.

She was wearing

her college uniform.

I didn’t know

what else to say.

So I apologized

one more time

for the perfume.

She smiled

with kindness.

“Don’t worry.

You’ll find someone

who can bear

all these things.

I’m sorry.

I couldn’t.”

I never saw her again.

The first thing

I did

when I reached home

was throw away

the perfume.

Even now,

when I tell this story

to my friends,

they always ask,

“What brand

was that perfume?”

I never have an answer.

I don’t.

The bottle of perfume

is gone.

But the memory

isn’t.