“Did you meet the schniffer?”
“Oh, wow, he invented The Swiffer?” I yelled to Amy over the din of Tao.
“No. No. He’s the sNiffer. He sniffs women.”
“What? Like a dog?”
“He literally won’t do a deal if he doesn’t like the way someone smells.” I watch this man across the table as he speaks to a friend of a friend. “He wouldn’t give Brad the green light with Louise until after he sniffed her.”
Oh my God.
We’re at Toa for dinner, and we’re past several group “cheers” of champ-agne-in-the-ass. I get to thinking I miss the hamptons, especially the click of huge plastic cups of wine in the middle of Whale’s Tales as a “SOCIAL!” Okay, everyone else did beer. That’s beside the point. The sniffer is feeling good, gots his buzz on somethin’ fierce. He’s feeling confident enough to begin to rub the foot of the woman beside him at dinner. She permits him because it’s 11:11pm and her wishes aren’t coming true. He leans in and lingers near her ear. Observers are certain he’s going in for the inhale. Instead he says to her, “The key to a woman’s soul is in her shoes.” Then his hand navigated up from the arch of her foot to the arch of her t-back thong. And she let him because, well, she wants more socials, more toasts, and more than she has now, even if it is with a man who uses the word "soul."