Aroma Tax

The indoor walls were suffocating my culinary instincts, so I slid back out through the screen door and shuffled down the sidewalk. Two blocks of grueling pedestrian labor brought me to the brick step right outside the corner bakery. An exhaust vent hummed at ankle level, blowing warm, glorious gusts of baked dough and molten cheese straight across the pavement. Walking any further would have been an unforgivable betrayal of my physique. I slumped against the painted red brick, hooked my tail around an empty paper pastry bag snagged in the grating, and let the hot, savory breeze wash over me. Pure luxury.