He smells like coffee. It took me months to put my finger on it. Not coffee shop coffee, loaded down with sugars and cream, but black brew, the type they serve with pastries after a church service. It’s a warm comfortable scent I have come to love. I can smell it just under his jaw, in the shoulder of his jacket, in the bare skin just above his wrist watch. I can smell his soap and the slick stuff he uses in his hair as well, but his natural scent is cheap black coffee. I’m not sure if I associate coffee with him because it reminds me of lazy Sunday mornings, or if he has drunk enough of it that it has seeped into every pore of his body, but I can’t think of a better scent for a man. It’s certainly better than any of those colognes they make for men, horrid concoctions that burn my esophagus. Lately, cheap black coffee has become my drink of choice.