MAN BREATH

I stopped showering before first dates a long time ago. I remember when I was in my twenties and early thirties, I'd leave work early on the day of a date to rush home and soap myself down so I could feel nice and fresh. Now, if there's no sweat before a date, there's no shower. I do, however, make sure I'm presentable: I do my Mr. Rogers routine and change from my sneakers to my shoes before I leave. I brush my hair, make sure there's nothing in my teeth or in my nose, and I suck on a Tic-Tac, Altoid, or whatever else I have handy. So I don't think it's unreasonable for me to expect the same of a woman who's meeting me for an after work cup of coffee.

In short, she was nothing to look at, perfectly nice, but the breath...oh the breath! It wasn't the type of halitosis resulting from not eating all day, or from eating something spicy. It was MAN BREATH! The type that I always envisioned Sipowicz from NYPD Blue having, or a brand of foul smelling respiration emanating from some old guy sitting on the back of a bus. I tried to stay out of it's path, but every time I moved my head slightly, it found me like a heat seeking missile made entirely of dirty socks that had just come off the feet of someone who'd run a marathon in them and then filled them with dog shit.

When we left the cafe and were about to part ways, I felt like offering her a Tic-Tac, but I didn't want to embarrass her. I doubt a little one calorie breath mint would have done the job required of a colonic anyway. This breath started way down deep and needed to be destroyed at the source like the Death Star in Star Wars.