The art of throwing up. It's not an art, per se, but you know, there's a difference between having it all in one place or having it all over yourself like a piggy.
I remember this one time when Mark was emptying his bowels after a long night drinking, and somehow, an orange scent came about, like someone was peeling that fruit around us, even though we were on the street, near chicken shops and chippies. The stench from those oil-using fast food making dime-costing places wasn't enough to overthrow the incoming citrus flavour.
I looked around to see where it might come from, using my nose to guide me like a dog is guided towards his meal, and I couldn't find it. Three alleyways passed, and there was no stopping it. I carried on until I could smell no more, and once that happened, I turned back, hoping for it to return, but it did not.
An orange peel zest came into my life on a whim, and escaped as fast, silencing my moment of amazement.
Whenever someone pukes, I always remember that scent making me go like the red string of fate, except it was cut short, like it wasn't meant to be. And I get sad.