Reclining upon a conversation couch, Mr. Oud cuts an enigmatic figure.
He is there, but not there, and you sense this as much as you see him there before you.
The elements are all present: the velvet rose of his robe, slightly ruched at the sleeve – the ring of colorful jewels, just slightly out of focus – the way his fingers idly roam about some patch of dyed faux fur – and the fragrance of oud, alternately off-putting and intoxicating, the most compelling way to wear a fragrance.
He is there, but he is not there. When you lock eyes with him, he seems to disappear. Sleight of hand and face and body, present and absent at once. He is like scent itself – indelible and invisible.
Perhaps Mr. Oud is merely making the holiday rounds, and then he’ll disappear for good.
Or until he is seen, and not seen, again.
Memory like scent – powerful, evocative, fleeting – memory like a man gone missing.
