Steve stood before his cologne cabinet like a general surveying fallen comrades—thirty-seven bottles, each with a story, none with a clear alibi. The vetiver reminded him of that ill-fated camping trip where a raccoon stole his pants. The citrus blend brought back memories of a Vegas bachelor party that ended with a black eye and an unpaid bar tab in three currencies. And the oud—God, the oud—smelled like horny mahogany and regret. His wife called from downstairs, asking if he was “still bottling up his midlife crisis.” He muttered something about pheromones and destiny, spritzing options onto both wrists until he smelled like a brothel on fire. He had room for seven scents in his toiletry bag, but none of them said what he needed them to say: “I’m still the man you married, but maybe also someone you’d cheat with.”

The clock ticked like a judge’s gavel. In the end, Steve narrowed it down to nine contenders—then ten—then back to seven with the brutal decisiveness of a man disarming a bomb. Each bottle was cradled like a newborn, wrapped in socks for protection, and kissed with a whisper of “Don’t embarrass me.” As the zipper of the suitcase groaned shut, he felt both pride and panic. What if he chose wrong? What if sandalwood was too presumptuous? What if musk screamed “I peaked in college”? The car honked outside. His wife was loading the kids. Steve took one final whiff of himself, exhaled with the weight of a man whose legacy now rested on scented alcohol... and realized he’d forgotten deodorant.

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