When his cologne reached my nostrils, I complimented the fragrance, mmmphing over the honeyed amber and verbena.
“What fragrance?” he winked. “This is a scent-free workplace, remember?”
Indeed I remembered, between the admonishments from our joyless HR and the Scent-Free Workplace directive laminated and tacked on multiple cubicle walls as though it carried the power and significance of the Constitution.
“In that case,” I said, “I’m really enjoying your natural man-scent.”
He leaned against my side, flushing, as we studied reports splayed across the boardroom table, his arm hair making his dress-shirt springy, like when my chihuahua wears a sweater.
****
Angela James is a lawyer by day and a lover of flash fiction, comedy and Americana music. She has been published in various outlets, including Flash Fiction Magazine, Blink Ink and Cowboy Jamboree. Her work has been nominated for inclusion in Best Small Fictions 2024.
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I'm in awe of this story. So simple, yet so clever. And not a word wasted.