Monsieur Dubois ran a very specific kind of salon. He was a sommelier of human emotions. He could isolate the exact flavor profile of a person's tears.
Clients came to him to taste their own grief, their joy, their anxiety, bottled and aged. "Ah, yes," he would say, holding a delicate glass of shimmering liquid to the light. "A robust anxiety, very acidic, with notes of unpaid bills and a lingering hint of existential dread."
He made his living giving people the clarity of their own internal lives.
One day, a wealthy, powerful woman known for her cold indifference came to his salon. She demanded he bottle her emotions. He managed to collect a few drops, but the liquid in the glass was almost clear, tasteless, bland.
"This is nothing," she snapped, disgusted.
"Indeed," Dubois said sadly. "Your life is so curated, so controlled, that there is nothing left to taste. No joy, no sadness, just bland compliance."
The woman left in a rage. Dubois, a man who dealt in the raw honesty of human experience, suddenly felt a genuine sadness of his own. He captured his tears in a small, empty bottle. He held the glass to the light, noting the complex, bitter taste of empathy and pity. It was, he decided, his best vintage yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment