“Mac and cheese again?” winced John, who was always on a diet—a virtually impossible task with all the boxed stuffing and greasy meatloaf around. He was gay and doing a valiant husband hunt in all of two gay bars around town. Every Friday and Saturday night, he was there like clockwork. Hope springs eternal with John, and I admire that. I grabbed my paper plate and took a seat on a cold plastic chair. I had been digging in for no longer than three minutes, when Big Black Kevin’s (his own nickname) head popped up from his Stouffer’s and he began sniffing the air with a very curious expression on his face.
“Hey, it’s not that bad. It’s frozen, it can’t have gone septic.” I gestured with my mac and cheese covered fork. His head whipped around like a pinwheel in a gust of wind and his eyes zeroed in on me. “What?” I said, and instinctively prodded at my teeth for possible macaroni.
Kevin’s face turned sublime. He rose from his seat and slowly moved closer to me, sniffing all the while like an amorous Basset Hound, except six and a half feet tall and definitely drooling. He wafted to the back of my chair.
“You smell... you smell… ” grappled Kevin. “Like Miss Taylor,” he sighed. “My fourth grade teacher.” And with a groan of relief, he buried his wet nose into my neck and inhaled so deeply I nearly got a hickey. “I had such a crush on that woman. She wore these navy blue suits, and these scarves around her neck… ” he mumbled dreamily. Then in a sudden fit of recognition, Kevin twirled around in a cafeteria dance move and crushed me to his chest, laughing. He held me at arm’s length and beamed. “You are wearing Jovan Musk Oil! I haven’t smelled that since the 1970s, girl! I love it! Mmm!” He gave me a big kiss on the cheek and proceeded to follow me around all day long, which was fine because he helped bus my tables. It’s amazing what a scent can do to a man.
