“May/December” was a retired CFO wanting a younger woman.We meet at this trendy, hippyish restaurant where you cook your own food in the center of the table. The aroma of the place was amazing.
We sit down at a cozy booth and make light conversation. I am enjoying the cooking process and savory smells when I notice another odor competing with our triple cheese fondue pot.
I’m thinking, “Did he just FART?!”
He has a straight face, which of course, is a strong indicator of innocence when one is farting. It has to be something else.
A few minutes go by and there it is again—an overpowering odor filling the airspace in our booth. Again, he doesn’t look guilty.
“It can’t be farts, it must be something on fire at another table.”
I’ve never been there before, and odd stuff is cooking all around. Maybe somebody’s organic hemp sleeve caught on fire? The pungent odor continues for the rest of our dinner.
He invites me over to his place. He has little dogs hanging around wanting attention.We sit on the couch next to each other, and within minutes there’s a stench emanating from his direction. I don’t hear a sound. I look at him pointedly, but he maintains a poker face. Is he pretending he isn’t farting, thinking I will naturally blame the dogs?
Does he not know he’s farting? Maybe his sphincter muscle suffered a tragic accident and has been rendered sensationless. Maybe he lost his sense of smell?
By this time, I am uncomfortable because he has the thermostat set high. He’s a senior, and they like it warm. I’m starting to drip with sweat, and I grew up in one of the hottest deserts on earth.
He wants to cuddle. I say bluntly, “It’s way too hot in here for that.” All he needs to do is crack a window and let in cool, night air, but he doesn’t.
He gets up to change the temperature, and rips one. Sits back down and cuts another. He’s passing so much gas that no sooner has the cloud cleared from the last one, when he rips another whopping stinker. I never understood the true meaning of the phrase “silent but deadly” before.
His farts are so rank I swear I can taste them.
And they seem to be raising the temperature in
the room, much like a hot air furnace would.
Here I am, sweating and gagging on farts, when he suddenly puts his head on my lap.
He lifts his head up and makes a move like he’s going to kiss me. I thwart him by asking what kind of watch he has, as if I give a rat’s ass about men’s watches.
I need to get out of there before I’m overcome by fumes and die. I can envision the nightly news anchors commenting on my untimely demise:
I stand up and announce I have to go.
“I was hoping you’d stay overnight,” he whines.
“No. Can’t.” I reply, but wanted to say, “Didn’t bring my overnight gas mask.”
I put on my coat and race out his front door. I never see…or smell…him again.