He says, “You smell like the 70’s.”

Like those corduroy knee patches on my favorite fifth-grade jeans?
Or Portland raindrops spattering coffee in a recycled-paper cup.
How about a faded Pine tree freshener dangling from the radio knob of an RV.
A tuna-noodle casserole in Corning Ware cooling on a Formica countertop?

Maybe a not-so-easy-to-identify scent: Dr. Pepper? Mountain Dew?
I’m kinda hoping for the Burt Reynolds Cosmo spread: Seedy chest-hair musk.
Much better than the doomed Faberge Farrah Fawcett shampoo.
Or summer camp: mosquito repellent, pond scum, crafting with corn husks.

Could he mean organic honey? Or sprouts? Quinoa? Brown rice?
Cereal box cardboard? The cellophane protecting a decoder ring inside?
It had better not be Cheez Whiz. Fluffernutter. Or that strange blue Italian Ice.
I’d rather the waft of a wet Polaroid while attempting to wave it dry.

He might be thinking macramé, bean bags, shag carpeting.
A butterscotch-plaid sofa set. Or its sticky plastic covering?
Rabbit fur jackets. Sun-bleached cowboy boots. Powder-blue velveteen.
Or maybe he smells Shrinky Dinks fresh out of an Easy-Bake Oven.

“Yeah,” he says. “So trippy. Lemme take another whiff.”
“Uh, okay,” I say. “The 70’s? Go ahead—scratch and sniff.”