morning notes

jasmine, burrata, and mermaid oil perfume

It’s 8:30 on a Tuesday morning in July. I’m still under my soft pink sheets and fluffy white duvet. Lorde’s Oceanic Feeling is playing. The sun is hiding in the clouds - which means it’s also slightly overcast inside my apartment. I made a coffee with beans from my favourite Italian bakery. It’s currently balancing on my stomach as I type this to you.

I have to tell you something that I’ve been doing lately. Before bed, I’ve been listening to my newsletters. On the Substack app - you can press “play” - in the upper right hand corner, and a voice narrates the newsletters to you. I always debate recording my own voice, but I tried once - and the audio was glitchy. Maybe I’ll try again.

There’s something about having your own words read out loud to you, your own story read out loud to you. There’s less of a judgement, less of a bias. You’re the reader, you’re the audience. You’re not thinking of how you come across, or eye-rolling at the grammar mistakes.

For the past 2 nights, I’ve been wearing a pair of OFM’s boxers to bed and listening.

Listening to the story of when we met up in September, when I thought I was moving back to Rome, when we fought, and when I didn’t move back. When I stayed. When we danced to “Sorry”at the bar. When I signed my lease, and then immediately ran into him after on the street in the pouring rain. When he left, and when I ended it. When he came back, when I came back. When we both agreed that we’d never be together, just to open the door back up a few months later for it to be shut again.

I know it’s only been a week, but what a difference a week makes.

The morning after everything imploded and I pulled a gone girl - my friend

karlie flood

FaceTimes me.

“Emily - you can literally hop on a plane tomorrow and go to Rome. You have friends there. And where is he going to go?”

That moment stuck with me. Because it was a reminder of a love and a community that I had created. Friends and lovers who lived in New York and who lived in Rome. Creative friends with open hearts, open minds, and open homes. A community created on the basis of vulnerability and of speaking our truths.

karlie flood

also reminded me to write a letter to Rose on Sunday evening.

Which, of course, I did.

“OFM really needs to exit stage left - doesn’t he?” I wrote to her. She’d agree.

Yesterday morning I woke up and put on one of my favourite, all-white Brandy outfits. A white spaghetti strap tank and matching white lacy mini. The gods were on my side because it was one of the first mornings where I had zero self-tanner streaks. I used my favourite Vaseline Coco Shimmer stick all over my body, and dabbed a bit of my new favourite perfume behind my ears and wrists.

The sun is shining. There’s the slightest breeze. I visit my favourite coffee shop for an iced Americano.

“Don’t worry - it’s on us today.”

The girl at the cafe smiles at me when I reach for my wallet.

I am very dramatic with my expressions, and do my best to hold back happy tears. I don’t want to tell her that I just exited a Situationship From Hell. And this free iced Americano had to have been a gift from the universe.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much you made my day.”

I continue my stroll. And now, because I just saved $6, I tell myself that I can buy a little treat from one of my favourite skincare stores.

I pick up the matching “Mermaid Oil” bar soap to match another one of my favourite perfumes. It smells like jasmine and reminds me of that never-ending jasmine season in Rome. Where white flowers bloomed everywhere and you couldn’t escape the scent that lingered.

The jasmine that sprawls on the terracotta behind us.

I am friends with the owner, and I tell him I just exited a Situationship From Hell.

“But good for you, Emily. It’s always so hard to know when to leave those. Especially when there’s so much history.”

“Well. Especially when they block you - they don’t give you much of a choice.”

We both laugh.

“You know - I really want to move out of the city again.” I tell him. “Maybe in the fall or winter. And now I have that freedom to.”

“Do it. You’ll make it happen - I believe in you.”

I continue on my stroll. Next is burrata, but a good burrata. I have some heirloom tomatoes and I’m dying to make a burrata and tomato salad with sourdough.

I see one of the best looking men that I’ve ever seen in the city of Toronto walk into the Italian grocer ahead of me. He has to be about 6’4. He has wavy blonde hair, he’s wearing the perfect white t-shirt with a pair of olive green shorts and white tennis shoes. He’s carrying a worn-in leather duffle. He looks like belongs in Copenhagen.

I pick up my burrata, and he’s in front of me in line - picking up a Niçoise salad. Those were my favourite salads when I did a solo trip to Paris in the summer of 2018.

He turns around and looks at me.

“Go ahead.” He smiles.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

It’s a strange interaction - I have one item. He has one item. But I welcome a hot man letting me cut him in line.

I set my sunglasses down at the cash register, and dig into my bag for my wallet, when I notice a woman’s arm beside me go to grab my sunglasses.

I don’t know why I’m so calm.

“Oh - those are mine.”

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I left my glasses somewhere and thought they were mine.”

The woman has a strong French accent, and is wearing one of the most beautiful long green dresses I’ve ever seen. She even has that chic, French-girl haircut.

Im honoured she thought my Chloé’s were hers.

“Don’t even worry. It’s not a problem.”

I leave the bakery, and set myself down on the bench outside.

The French woman comes outside to apologize to me again. She pulls out her glasses from her purse.

“They were in my bag the entire time. Can you believe it?”

I laugh. “Honestly - not a problem.” I’m still flattered, to be honest.

The hot man has already crossed the road, but there’s something about these interactions that made me happy.

My Mermaid Oil soap has a slight shimmer to it. And that’s the perfect way to describe that Monday afternoon mood after A Week From Hell.

Shimmering. Sparkling.

Interactions that leave you feel hopeful.

She’s always sending me signs.

And believe me, I’m listening.

Love you,

Emily