Today, walking between the train and my office, I saw the perfect woman. She was everything a man could ever, has ever wanted, in a member of the finer gender. Her face was a study in sculpted beauty, alabaster white with high cheekbones. The lines and the white of her face were paused only in her soft, full, ruby lips, and the burning eyes that I confess I did not see, and I am merely extrapolating from the rest of her great beauty when I tell you of the burning eyes, bright grey; all framed by the most delicate feathered hair, ebon jet black, framing the contrast with her ivory features. She was of middle height, slim, yet curved and well endowed, and she walked with a firm stride and a knowing smile.
None of this is what made me notice her, what drew me to the conclusion that she was the perfect woman. That was her scent. I know that pheromones can affect a person, and that the sense of smell is the strongest, the most powerful of them all, and I tell you this was the perfect woman:
She smelled just like fried chicken.