Exerpt from a Book:

Fashionistas, by Lynn Messina

"The offices of Fashionista are like the streets of San Francisco, only with microscent zones instead of microclimates. Every editor in every office is always burning some kind of candle---lilacs, vanilla, cinnamon, multifragranted concoctions called Grandmother's Kitchen---and if you don't like the smell, all you have to do is walk a few feet to the left and breathe different air.

But things are different today. Someone is burning incense. Its scent is heavy and powerful and floats down the hallway like a thick-soled phantom, seeping under doorways. Even the bathroom's ordinarily antiseptic aroma is undermined.

We aren't prepared to deal with incense. It is the heavy artillery, the big guns, and we have no place to take cover. We are exposed in the center, a shantytown of cubicles, and our only recourse is to breathe the cigarette-infused air outside the revolving door on the ground floor.

"It's frankincense and myrrh," says Christine, popping her head over the cubicle wall.

"What?" I'm trying to write an article about celebrity-owned restaurants, but I can't concentrate. The smell is too distracting.

"The incense. It's frankincense and myrrh," she explains.

I'm surprised by her revelation and not quite sure I believe her. This is the twenty-first centruy, and we have all forgotten what frankincense and myrrh smell like.

"Myrrh has a bitter, pungent taste," says Christine.

"It's not myrrh," I say, my eyes focused on my computer screen. "Myrrh doesn't exist anymore."

Christine leans against the wall and it gives slightly under her weight. "Vig, you can't deny the existence of myrrh."

I look at her. "I can. I deny the existance of myrrh."

"That's ridiculous. The wise men brought it to baby Jesus as a birthday present."

"So?" I say with a shrug before making some comment about dodo birds. My point is only that dodo birds used to exist and now they don't, but somehow I've managed to suggest that dodo birds were another gift of the magi.

Christine's eyes widen as she misunderstands me. "The wise men didn't bring dodo birds to Bethlehem. What a ridiculous thing to imply," she huffs.

"How do you know?" I ask, because the vehemence in her tone is too strong. You should never be that sure about anything. "I mean, how do you know for a fact that they didn't also bring dodo birds?"

"Because it's not in the bible," she says with more insistence than the topic calls for. I'm only teasing. "There's no mention of dodo birds anywhere."

I don't have Christine's religious bent---in fact, I don't have a religion at all---and I'm amused by her vehemence. It's not my intention to upset her. The last thing I want is for her to clutch the thin thumbtack wall with clenched fists, but I don't apologize. It's my belief that myrrh no longer exists and even though I don't believe in much, I have the right to use these thin convictions. I have no problem accepting the existence of frankincense, with its ugly f and traffic-stopping k, but not myrrh, something so light and airy that it is only a soft breeze on your lips.

"Besides," she says, "I know for a fact that myrrh still exists. We had some in my cooking class."

Christine is trying to get out of Fashionista and the route she has taken is aspiring food critic. She harbors dreams of being a food writer. She wants to be one of those people who is paid to detect the impertinent flavor of cumin in a spring roll. She wants to go to James Beard foundation dinners and sit next to Julia Child. She wants to work at a magazine that has a little more substance than seeping incense."