Everything else was going well.
We found a table, ordered drinks, and slipped into the same easy rhythm we had online. He was funny. Thoughtful. He listened. But every time he leaned in slightly or shifted in his chair, that cloud of fragrance followed, distracting me from what he was saying.
I kept telling myself not to be shallow. It was just a smell. Still, it lingered in the back of my mind, tugging at my attention.
By the end of the evening, I decided honesty would be kinder than silently judging him.
I smiled and asked gently, “Can I ask you something? What cologne are you wearing? It’s… pretty strong.”
He laughed, a little embarrassed. “Oh no. Is it too much?”
“Maybe just a little,” I said carefully.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I always worry I don’t smell fresh enough. I’d rather overdo it than underdo it. I guess I went way overboard tonight.”
And just like that, my irritation softened.
What I had interpreted as a possible dealbreaker wasn’t arrogance or carelessness—it was nerves. It was someone trying too hard to make a good impression. He wanted to show up polished, prepared, appealing. He just miscalculated the dosage.
There was something almost endearing about that.
We finished our drinks, still laughing. When we said goodbye, the air felt lighter—not because the scent had faded, but because my perspective had shifted.
