Posted by: shelliejelly | September 9, 2009

Dear K.

You had a habit that I never told you I was aware of, not that you wouldn’t have figured that I knew. I don’t even remember the first time, perhaps in the car while we were driving somewhere. You’d let one off silently, the only telltale sign you’d farted being the terrible, eye-stinging smell that suddenly and without warning would present itself.

The incredible part was that your demeanor wouldn’t stray an inch, wouldn’t move even one centimeter toward acknowledging you were the origin, had produced the stench. I remember clearly a time when we were over at some friend’s house, you fixing their car, me sitting on the porch chatting. When you were done we all went inside to look at something and, while huddled over whatever it was, a picture?, I have no idea, the smell seeped up, up, up, throwing its arms around all of us and squeezing tight.

Strangely, no one stood up immediately holding their nose, asking “Holy Christ, what is that smell?” No, instead we all remained hunched over pretending that yes, of course, I smell things this awful all the time. No big deal. You continued talking as though nothing out of the ordinary were occurring—but of course, for you, nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Perhaps denying the existence of your farts was as good as reversing the action, like an exhale you decide to inhale back to your lungs midway through the breath.

Even funnier, though probably only to me, is I never mentioned this to you. Never said when we were in the privacy of our own car driving home, “Hey, wow, you really let a stinker go back there,” or “Good Lord, K., what’s going on, do you have a bellyache or what’s with the farting?” Not one word, not a peep. No knowing glance that said “That’s okay, it smells like you just shit your pants, but I still love you.” Nothing.

Until now.


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