It is not exactly the scent of a woman
that makes me ache, though that, too.
She in her place,
exuding a smell that most men
would kill for,
mingled with the odor of the bar world
she fits into so
well,
and the heavy cologne of the bartender,
and the bad breath of the man
of the couple on my right side,
his woman with cheap Jean Nate,
less morbidly sweet
than Chantily
yet just as tasteless,
but appropriate here as if
pieces of a puzzle
that when put together make up her world,
as she grins and sips
her wine
and flirts with the bartender,
leaning across the
bar
to show him her
business card
as he stares down the front of her dress,
caught up with her
scent, too,
an irresistible aroma
we men breathe in deeply,
while lesser women
like Jean Nate
we try to ignore,
her scent some scent
I’ve smelled before
just can’t remember where.
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