As I'm strolling in from the parking lot to see Iron Man, I hear a sing-song voice call out "Hi there!" I look up and see a gorgeous blond woman trotting toward me from the other side of the road, and away from a ruggedly handsome looking guy. Clearly she means to talk to me, stopping in front of me with a wide smile. Rewound fifteen years ago, this scene would have been the stuff of legend.
Then she tries to sell me cologne. I mean, really wants to sell me cologne.
"Check this out," she says, offering me a whiff of a multi-syllabled spray, explaining that it's oil-based so to rub it in a little, pointing out its popularity and its retail value of $65 but for me it's just $20 OK?
"Well, actually, I tend to pick my cologne based on what my wife likes..."
Misinterpreting my point, she bubbled on as if she knew the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa.
"What kind does your wife like to wear?"
She had me there. Once it's scratched off the Christmas list, that information nestles behind the cells in my brain that memorized the Gettysburg Address.
"Well, she tends to buy me CK One..."
Not good enough.
"No, I mean what does she like to wear?"
"Actually, I don't know," applying another scent she'd thrust into my hand and becoming vaguely unsettled about the oncoming traffic.
"Does she like more of a clean or sweet scent?"
Before I could answer:
"She probably likes clean. My brother likes clean, and he's about your age, he's 27."
She was pulling out every trick from Streetwalking Cosmetology Sales 101. I had a date with Iron Man, and by now Aeropostale dude had caught up so I knew that she would be in good hands. For example, he began to lead her out of traffic. I made a mental note not to sniff my hands further until I got home, as a precaution against catching whatever she had...
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