Yesterday was a day of smells. The first sensory impression I had in the day, besides the blast of cold air that greeted me as I stepped off the bus, was the warm, sugary smell of pastries. The scent followed me from the outside plaza into the foyer, and then drifted with me down the hall—I finally shut it out by closing the elevator doors. Yet even in the elevator my nose had company; a distinct buttered-popcorn scent accompanied me to my floor. On the way to my office I stopped in the bathroom and blew my nose—trying to expel the smells from my mind so I could complete my projects in scentless peace.

Alas, the solution was only temporary.

Later, walking to the water fountain, I met the unmistakable odor of orange Pez—well, I think it was Pez, it had a chemically orange property to it and was very powdery smelling—it had to be an artificially flavored talcum of some sort. My nose was obviously trying to tell me something—what would you do in such circumstances? I knew what I had to do, and I obeyed with a contrite heart.

“Would you like your coffee cake with or without nuts, sir?”
“Without, please. And may I have a chocolate chip pecan cookie too?”