Eau de Molasses

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.