It was a day when the threat of rain hung in the air. A young woman drove up to a drive-through market to buy milk and was waited on by a man wearing a turban. Handing the woman her change through the car window, he said, with the trace of an Indian accent, “Ah! The smell of eternity is in the air.”
She was impressed, assuming his mystical words were either the Indian equivalent of “It feels like rain,” or maybe a philosophical observation akin to “The end is near.” She smiled politely and said nothing.
But he continued. “Eternity,” he repeated. “Are you wearing Eternity cologne?”
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