THE LAST TIME I had used my time machine was one year ago, on some Tuesday morning in early March. My husband and I often shared the drive to work, and it was one of my favorite hours of the day. He’d dream about free highways and self-driving electric cars. I’d fret about the kids going to bed too late. Sometimes, he’d watch me in his rear-view mirror as I smeared color on my lips. Finally, I’d pull out my time machine, pop open its coral lid, and bring it to my neck.
One spritz on the left.
One spritz on the right.
Suddenly, the air around me would bloom with notes of jasmine and gardenia, and in a Proustian instant, I would be transported across decades and continents.
And there I
