This guy’s cologne is killing me.
I’m not sure if that was his plan…
I don’t think this is what they meant by
Erotic asphyxiation.
He is talking to me—
I see his lips moving—
But my mind is floating on
A sea of…
Oakyness?
Mulch and spring water
With a spritz of maple syrup
Harvested by lumberjacks?

Nature makes boys smell like men.

I raise my eyebrows and nod to
Whatever it is he’s saying;
Throw in a smile so he feels clever.
I wonder where he got this cologne…
A gas station?
A vendor on the street who sells
Pancakes and workout videos?
Because that’s what it makes me think of.
Maybe he made it himself,
In a shed he has hidden in the back country.
Can you get high off cologne?
Because smelling it makes me crave oatmeal,
Cooked over a campfire.
That would explain why he’s bathing in it.

I’ve got to come up for air. Let’s weigh the options:
Bathroom?
I could crack a window…
Complain about heat exhaustion and demand a personal fan
Or better yet…
Fake a stroke and avoid conversation all together!
Right now I’d give anything to hear someone shout,
“Give her some air!”
Sweet, sweet air.

Uh-oh.
His lips aren’t moving.
He seems upset.
“Say something!” he demands.
I panic.
I was hardly listening to him,
Too busy being lost at sea in his musty ocean.
I grab at the first thing that comes to me:

“Wait a minute!
Lumberjacks don’t harvest syrup!”

Smooth.
Is it too late for that stroke option?
I’m about as subtle as his cologne.
Is that karma?

I think I might go on a hike.
I’ll bring pancakes.