I Spent an Entire Date Trying to Identify a Smell That Turned Out to Be a Lifestyle

I once had a crystal-clear thought in yoga that I was going to meet someone that night, which is already suspicious behavior for me because the only revelations I usually have in yoga are about carbs and whether I just committed a quiet crime by accidentally letting out a silent but deadly.

But this one felt… official. Specific. Like my brain had already cast the guy and was just waiting for him to hit his mark.

Cut to later: I’m at a bar, sipping a hot toddy like I’m the kind of person who journals instead of spirals, when I hear, “Have you tried the popcorn here?”

I turn, and it’s him. Not “kinda resembles the vision.” I mean copy-paste. Tall, thin, beard, skull cap, hoodie. The whole Williamsburg starter pack. I couldn’t tell if this was intuition or the Universe finally deciding to be efficient for once, but either way, I was into it. We start talking. He’s a graphic designer with vegetarian tendencies. He asks me to an art exhibit. I’m already planning the story to my friends I’m going to tell about how intuitive I am, how I just knew, how I’m basically a witch but chill.

The first date is solid. Cute, a little awkward, but normal. He can hold a conversation and likes art which is basically a green flag parade. I leave thinking, okay, this is promising. I might actually be rewarded for once instead of emotionally audited.

Then comes the second date, which is where the Universe goes, “just kidding.”

He picks me up in his truck, and the second I open the door, I get punched in the face by a smell so aggressive it feels targeted. Not “hmm something’s off.” This is a full-on olfactory hate crime. It’s like a New York taxi in August hooked up with a sack of rotting onions and decided to keep the windows sealed for intimacy.

I pause. Briefly. Because a sane person would not get into that vehicle.

I get in.

Because apparently I will ignore every instinct I have if there’s even a 2% chance I can turn it into a story where I’m right.

I roll the window down immediately.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, genuinely confused, like I’m the weird one for not wanting to hotbox onion death.

“No,” I say, hanging halfway out of the car like a dog who just discovered oxygen. “I just love fresh air. I’m really into… breathing.”

He’s talking. Asking me questions. Being engaged. And I’m nodding like I’m not actively trying to locate the source of what can only be described as a biohazard.

Is it the car? Is it him? Is there a loose onion under the seat that’s been through something traumatic? Is this a lifestyle?

I start doing math I did not sign up for. Because if it’s the car, we can fix the car. If it’s him… we’re dealing with a belief system.

Meanwhile, I am sitting there fully prepped. Hair done, makeup on, smelling like a woman who has access to soap. And he has shown up like hygiene is more of a suggestion.

Dinner feels like a hostage situation with appetizers. After what seemed like the longest dinner of my life, (I had to text my friend in the bathroom for moral support), I feigned sleepiness and insisted on going home early. I try to take the subway home, but he insists on driving me, which feels less like chivalry and more like being returned to the scene of the crime.

We get to my place and I can practically feel my shower calling me. Clean water. Clean air. A future.

Then he asks if he can come up to use the bathroom.

And now I’m in a moral crisis I did not consent to. Because what kind of monster denies someone a bathroom? Me, apparently, in hindsight. But not in real time.

So I let him up.

He uses the bathroom, comes out, takes off his coat, and goes in for the kiss like this is a normal progression of events and not a high-risk situation.

I almost gag mid-kiss, which is not how I saw my night going when I was in yoga earlier thinking I was having a spiritual awakening. Yep, he smelled too. There is no rogue onion. No external factor. No twist ending. This man is living his life like soap is a rumor. I pull away, wrap this up as quickly as humanly possible, and get him out the door before my body files a formal complaint.

The second he leaves, I get in the shower like I’m trying to wash my insides as well.

So yes, the Universe sent me a man.

And apparently it also said, “Let’s see how much she’s willing to overlook before she taps out.”

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