Gillian hated the smell of burnt tuna. Who wouldn’t? The smell of a rotting shoreline mixes with the odor of blackened char, it becomes an acrid sulfur of death and putrefaction.
Or so Gillian thought of it, albeit in not so many words. To her, the smell of burnt tuna was worse than the smell of hot garbage or STI discharge. There was nothing worse.
To her husband Harlan, though, the smell of burnt tuna was the smell of gourmet cooking. While not the greatest to have in your nostrils at first, he knew the delectability it would produce on the palate, and it was the anticipation of this that he loved. So while Gillian stood outside in the cold snow, waiting, he flipped the fish over and turned the heat just a little higher, salivating over the coming meal.
Outside, Gillian stomped her feet.