I know each aroma that emanates from my husband and believe it or not, I love every one of them – particularly the scent of his shoulders as my eyes flutter and I curl up against him in those waking moments before the dawn. I love the softness of his breath; the mild sour of his sweat; the apple of his pomade; the sand of his soles; the subtle, entrancing spice of his neck. Whether freshly groomed or leisurely shaggy, he always radiates a hypnotic wonder that paralyzes me. We make for interesting cavies in the study of romantic chemistry.
As I lie next to my husband ingesting his sweetness, or inhale what lingers on his pillow when he is gone, I sometimes find myself considering the importance of aromatic compounds to the success of a relationship. We have been known to writhe in laughter at each other’s unpleasant stories of the fetid clam hatchery and the dime-store musk of former flames. What exactly is it about one person’s hygienic habits that are so repulsive to the first lover, but so palatable to the next? After all that contemplation, all I am left to comprehend is that, whatever olfactory god blessed my husband's glands, he has ruined me for other men.