The car smelled like French toast sticks. He would buy them from a catalogue, whatever catalogue his children were peddling to pay for whatever their classes needed to pay for at the time. It met somewhere between natural and artificial, homemade and industrial. He bought his children pre-made breakfast from a magazine.
She smelled like non-description lemon-lime soda pop. Bright and refreshing, the absence of caffeine. He drank it for leisure, when he wanted a change, when he had nowhere to go and nothing to stay up for. He drank it when it was ill. It didn't matter which one. They were all more or less the same.
It was an olfactory crash, and a long drive.
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