It is never appropriate to sniff your neighbor. Let’s take that as a public service announcement.
I used to love a perfume with a hideous bottle. Let’s just say it rhymed with Ron Saul Faulty-ay. When Sweetman and I were dating, Ron Saul and I had to break up. It was a tragic. I loved how Ron made me smell.
Unfortunately, however, Sweetman couldn’t bear this other man being in my life! Or on me.
Literally. His body couldn’t bear it. He would get a monster migraine, along with all the nausea one could never want, for each and every date that I arrived at with all my perfumed self.
We came to realize that it was, indeed, my perfume that made him so ill. Actually, “we” didn’t come to realize a dern thing. It’s just that Sweetman finally got comfortable enough, and he liked me enough to stick it out until he could get comfortable enough, to tell me that my perfume made him sick. That’s Real Romance, right there, folks.
I have not worn perfume in 16 years, 1 month, and 5 days. Or something like that. Not that I’m counting.
It should come as no surprise, then, that when my neighbor stopped by the other day, smelling beautifully reminiscent of my old flame, Ron Saul, we had an awkward encounter. It started off just fine and dandy.
“Hi Neighbor. How are you? Fine Spring we’re having.”
“Why, yes, it’s nice to see the grass again, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is! My, but you smell good! What perfume is that?”
“Ron Saul Faulty-ay.”
“OH. MY. GOSH! GetoverheresoIcansmellyou!”
That took some explaining.