If only the world smelled of Smarties

I swear, the air Tuesday night smelled this sweet. I based a Fiction in 58 on it.

Teeth clenched, he leaves work, rips off the tie that’s choked him all day and casts an evil-brow glance at the setting sun.
He feels like hitting; he kicks a dented aluminum can, sends it skittering. Rage raises pin-pricks in his stomach.
He breathes deep; the air smells of Smarties, fruity, sweet.
He breathes again, tastes, smiles.