Jc Rammelkamp

How I Met Your Mother

My friend Roger invited me to a pheromone party.
Not a spur-of-the-moment decision.
You had to sleep in the same T-shirt three nights running,
put the shirt in a plastic bag,
bring it to the bash.

It was at the apartment of a woman named Kim,
a friend of Roger’s,
about twenty of us, ten males, ten females.

We all walked around the dining table
where the bagged shirts lay, as if at a laundry, 
casually sniffing the odors. 

A few of the people gagged and left,
apologizing to Kim as if they’d committed some serious faux pas.
Others simply didn’t see the point,
smelled, wrinkled their noses, raised eyebrows,
frowned or laughed, poured themselves a drink.
Some even danced.

But Lori and I found the scent of each other’s sweat
alluring, galvanic.
We separated from the others
like shirts from skin in an air-conditioned room,
talked all night, touched.

Several days later I called her.
The rest is history.
Roger was my best man. Who else?
“We met at a party,” we always say,
whenever anybody asks.

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