“I can smell a trap. It smells like my ass.”
“There are whiskers in my soup, and my spoon smells like my cat’s ass.”
“I inhale, and the two best smells in my world get trapped in my lungs: the salty, cool sting of the ocean in the morning and sweet, morning-sweaty smell of Whit.”
“My favorite smells are freshly baked bread, the pages of an old book, and they way my boss’ ass smells when he’s shouting at me.”
“I know what death smells like. Death smells like gasoline, singed hair and fingernails.It smells like cooking meat. My meat.”
“What does he smell like?” “Smell like?” I scrunched up my face. “You know, he looks like he’d smell good.”