The Power of Polo

A couple of weeks ago, I popped into a local restaurant to pick up my pizza. I slid up to the bar to claim my pie and found myself standing over the shoulder of man who was perched on one of the stools. I caught a whiff of his cologne. He smelled like my high school boyfriend. And that was pleasant. I let my nose float me back to the age of 16. Wanting to enjoy the sensation, I intentionally didn't let my gaze fall on the man sitting near me -- his physical form would most certainly ruin the wave of nostaglia since it would be unlikely that it was a 6'2" teenage boy with shiny brown hair and a hint of freckles sitting on that stool, or even anyone close to the handsome man that boy became ... I couldn't tune out the stranger's voice entirely, however, despite trying, and I heard him say to his buddy, "No, they're not asians, they're orientals..." Poof, wistful rememberances disappeared and I grabbed my pizza and fled.