INSPIRATION
Melon was always there. Growing up in Spain, it sat on the table all summer. Thick wedges, juice running down my hands before I could wipe it away. The smell of long afternoons with no plans, no school, nothing to do but eat and wait for the heat to pass. Back then, melon meant being a child who had not yet learned to behave.
Decades later, I found melon again. I was a young perfumer trav- eling through Southeast Asia, walking through night markets long after sunset. Even at midnight, the heat from the day was still there. Heavy in the air, soaked into the pavement. Flowers, smoke, fruit stacked under single hanging lightbulbs. And somewhere inside all of it, that same sweetness from home, only heavier, juicier, more decadent. The kind of sweetness that belongs to people who stay out too late and do exactly what they want. Bright turns sticky. Refreshing turns addictive. You stop wanting it and start needing it.
MELÓN MALO is for the ones who never really grew up. The ones who feel most alive at night. The ones who still want the things they were told to stop wanting. It remains the most addictive obsession I have never outgrown.
