I smelled Raphael as soon as he emerged from the elevator. A mixture of spaghetti sauce, musk and seaweed. He was a travel writer who went all over, absorbing the aroma of each place. The women in my knitting circle gasped when I opened the door. We scrambled to squirt ourselves with our favorite perfume.
There he stood, covered in seaweed, sauce stains on his leather vest, the scent of musk emanating from his nether region.
Needless to say, we put aside our knitting and drank in the aroma that was Raphael.
Sadly, his breath would kill a wart hog.
We felt an impulse to salsa and drink sangria.
Do not judge us too harshly. Knitting can only provide so much release.
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