"What are you talking about, Bubba?" I say, pulling my arm away to flip the salmon on the grill.
"That smell there," he says, grabbing my arm again with his two little hands and shoving his perpetually runny nose right into my skin.
"I don't know, handsome, what is it?" I ask tentatively, expecting some crude fishy remark.
"You smell like..." sniff, sniff, sniff..."kind of like...hmm..." sniff, sniff... "I'm thinking, maple syrup and Starbucks."