The Blues

    It was still raining when he woke up, a steady rain, without the drama of thunder and lightning, good for farmers, he assumed, but a challenge for the perfect day the had planned (perhaps prematurely), for Allegra. The day he had planned since he first saw her behind the cosmetic counter at Macy's, extolling the subtleties of blush to a pair of women who needed more than a smear of pink to achieve the radiance Allegra exuded.

    It was his mother's fault. Or maybe he should give Mama the credit for his consultation with Allegra. Mother's Day, innocent Mother's Day, had sent him to Macy's for perfume. Mama loved anything that smelled good, and after a lifetime of prickly roses and wilting tulips, he had decided to be unpredictable this year, to surprise the person who knew him best with a gift she didn't expect.

    "Chanel Number 5?"

    Allegra had laughed, well, snorted, "Every man thinks Chanel No. 5 is the be all for every woman."

    "But it's just for my mother."

    "Just? Just?'

    He blushed, his worst quality, being a man who blushed when embarrassed. He felt the heat which meant the red had already spread up his neck to his scalp, and told him that this woman, Allegra in flowing cursive on her name tag, might be the one. He laughed, stuttered, tried to retract the "just" by over-explaining. "I always, well, usually, most of the time, give her something that smells wonderful on Mother's Day--a bouquet, chocolates, once a ride in the country to smell the first breath of spring."

    Allegra smiled, obviously charmed by his good taste, creativity, and filial devotion (or so he assumed), so he kept going, probably a sentence--or paragraph--too long, the good son extolling his own virtues, until she interrupted him.

    "Here is what you need." It was a small, dainty bottle. "L'Heure Bleu," she said, with a repeat of the dazzling smile. "Shall I wrap it up?"

    "It's so small," he blurted, without thinking, without really knowing anything about perfume.

    Allegra already had it wrapped in luminescent gold paper speckled with clouds of blue, and, when he choked on the price, Allegra reminded him that "The queen wore nothing else."

    $120 and 2 days later, his mother peered at the tiny, multifaceted bottle. "The blue hour?" she said, with only a hint of wonder, but the quizzical wonder that you might call disappointment or criticism, was enough for him to remember instantly that his mother's most common lament was "I've got the blues."

    Well, Allegra had said, "Let me know how she likes it...." Which had sealed the deal, because he would have to report back and the two of them could celebrate his mother's delight or, more probably, find solace in her lack of sophistication.