The room is dark.
You cannot quite tell what color the walls are.                                        (Mauve?)

There is a door in the corner. You can tell what color this one is.
White. Enormously white.

White like snow?

              No.
                 White like heavenly light?
                      No.

White like the echo of a window you see when you close your eyes. (Maybe not white)
The door is white like the color white, and it is closed.

Verbena and lavender:
It smells like a hotel body bar. The kind you bring home and keep under your sink, not to be touched for ten years.
Or like the bowl of decorative soap on your grandmother’s bathroom shelf. Purple and yellow flowers, waxy and not to be touched.
Or like the semi-toxic air fresheners they use in boutiques, swirling around the fancy dresses and jewelry, not-to-be-touched (by you at least)

The door has opened.
             You can come in now.

You rise, walk across the room                                        (gloom? tomb? vacuum?)

Behind the door there is a hallway. It is not white.
At the end of the hallway is a beaded curtain. Behind the curtain is her (you imagine)

You do not go through the curtain. You must go through the secretary first.

                Why do you seek her?
Because I don’t know who else to seek.
                Where did you hear of her?
I...can’t remember.
                 Then how can you be sure you remember what you need her for?

Because:

It is the only thing I can remember.

                                                                                                        (this is a lie)