I have been served a pina colada from an invisible host and I am both confused and pleased. I could get used to this.
Sweet coconut, pineapple and a cooling breeze with a nice touch of salinity in a droplet on my wrist is a nice reminder of where I came from, especially in the Midwest life I've found myself in. Am I back home on the quartz sands I was raised on? A sip on my skin turns produces a side serving of upside down cake, toasty sugar, and the lemony-lime goodness of the objectively best flavor of Skittle. Something follows behind that clears the tongue and senses, and I am lathered in warm shower with a fine body wash society would generally consider me to masculine to use but you gotta TREAT YOURSELF from time to time right? We warm to cobbler and oatmeal stout, and I am ambushed with what I swear is chili peppers and konbu, all awashed in that fine soapy mist. Like that, the island breeze is gone as swiftly as it has arrived, like a divebomb attack by a particularly aggressive and fine smelling seagull.
I lounge on my beach chair amidst the flurry of feathers and cocktail umbrellas and muse. I will say this scent does not wear well on me, but I tend to smell like a green bean and the fruit clashes with my chlorophyllic nature, so if you smell like legumes maybe give it a pass. For the rest of you beach goers at heart, you would do well to sample the savory nature of this olfactory vacation for yourself; just mind the seagull.