I tell you, this shit is getting old. Old and tired. I mean if I had a nickel for every time some Tom, Dick and Mr. Charlie tried to steal my idea, I’d own half this company by now. I could retire before thirty and not have to put up with this shit.
It’s been a long day. I’m trying to unwind. I’m on my third glass of wine this evening.
I knew that this time around wouldn’t be the city of romance, the city that I, a self-proclaimed Afro-Dite, love to turn out. This time around Paris was work and a crazy hectic mess.
The company’s developing a new celebrity fragrance that we’re passing off as being ‘created’ by a young actress that you all know.
Originally we wanted the scent to be bliss in a bottle, a chypre targeting single twenty somethings with dreams of big weddings and walking their bichon frises through Central Park in Manolos. You know, perfume is very cheap, you’re paying for the bottle and the dream.
We thought we had it. The lab put together an amazing rose-peach-cedar scent. Something sophisticated yet sweet, with a brush of naughty. Something I’d even wear. I projected that this scent would have a broader appeal, maybe even reach into the older demographic. We had the ad campaign approved until a sample group of ‘average’ Joes and Janes sat around a dry room in New Jersey, sniffed a dozen viles, different variations on the scent, and checked ‘no’.
I mean, I find out I’m going to Paris on a Monday, and by Thursday my team (meaning I) need a brand new strategy. I worked my ass off. Grabbed maybe 5 hours of sleep (thanks to cup of jamal) over the course of 48 hours. Took an Ambien on the plane and slept the whole way there.
This time around we directed the perfumers to take out the nuance. No room for coquettry, just girlish. Obnoxiously sweet. Something for the woman with sling backs, lace bras, and tea cup dogs. Bergamot, lavender, cedar… a hint of apple martini. Nothing I’d ever where, but a guaranteed hit.
All this work so Mr. Smart Ass could present my idea before the board this afternoon as if they were his own. The day before the board meeting he tells me he’s going to do the first part of the presentation– the numbers. Then he’d leave the strategy, the magic, up to me. So when I heard my words leaving his lips– I nearly choked.
Me and the other guy just stood there, like he was Gladys and we were The Pips. Needless to say, the board loved my game plan. He was congratulated personally by the company heiress for saving the day
And what was supposed to do, smile and be grateful they even let a colored girl in the room. No, maybe fly into a rage, confirming suspicions that I’m nothing more than an angry Black woman in Prada.
Hell if I know.
I’m listening to Shirley Bassey sing “Diamonds are Forever”, feeling light headed, tipsy, like I might be sleep in the next half hour.
I’m so frustrated I could scream.
But who am I kidding? I want to get laid.
I miss Lance like crazy. It’s times like this I just wish he was here to hold me, You know those really long hugs that last a zillion minutes and leave you feeling like of all the places in the world you’ve traveled, the cove between those two arms is your favorite.
Besides a few text message and one short conversation, we haven’t talked much. Haven’t had time to be sidetracked. But right now I need it. Need it badly . And I want him. Two more days.
Ayesha is a writer, dancer, and the founder of WomenLovePower.com, a tech-enabled brand that provides resources on charm, seduction, sacred sexuality, and feminine warfare. A self-confessed afromantic, Ayesha's first love is romantic fiction and poetry. When away from her keyboard, she enjoys New Jack Swing throwbacks, 90's sitcoms, running, sleep, and Cabernet.
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